


Wellness

by tiigi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, I swear this is mostly cracky and fun, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Obsessive Behavior, Protective Tom Riddle, Stalking, The Wilds, basically they’re stranded on a desert island, very minor and treated as no big deal but still
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:20:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29366145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi
Summary: Harry doesn’t remember much about the crash.*After surviving a plane crash, Harry is stranded on a desert island with a group of other teenagers. Despite the fear, panic and frantic need to stay alive, Harry somehow captures the attention of Tom Riddle, which is another mess entirely.But in amongst all of this, Harry can’t help feeling that there’s something not quite right about this place they’ve ended up.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 142
Kudos: 313





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> So! 
> 
> I just watched The Wilds with bell and it was fantastic, great writing and brilliant actresses. Definitely would recommend 
> 
> A few major details have been changed. You don’t need to have watched the show for it to make sense or anything 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! <3

Harry doesn’t remember much about the crash. Not in those first few minutes straight afterwards, because the world becomes a blur and suddenly it fades to black around him and he’s transported to another place entirely, far away from here, a long time ago.

When he does wake up - coughing water out of his lungs, eyes burning with salt, floating untethered on the open sea - he recalls the little things. The grinding of metal. Screaming. A flash of blinding light before he closed his eyes. He remembers the way time seemed to stand still, and he remembers the overwhelming, all encompassing fear and panic that clawed at his throat. He remembers being afraid. But he can’t be sure if those feelings are from today, or years ago.

He wakes up in the ocean. It’s still light out, and the sun beats down on his upturned face, so he can’t have lost that much time. By some miracle, his glasses are still on his face, sliding down his nose with every gentle wave he rides, and his head throbs when he lifts it up. He’s splayed across some sort of debris. Maybe it’s the plane door. He can’t imagine how that happened, but he’s alive and nothing seems to hurt terribly other than his head. It’s a familiar pain - the type of pain that comes from staring at a screen for too long. He has a headache. He just survived a plane crash and all he has to show for it is a fucking headache.

He always thought there would be a little more fanfare, in this sort of situation.

It hurts when he pushes himself up onto his elbows, but he does it anyway. Who knows how long he’s been out here, or how far he’s floated? There’s no sign of a plane carcass. In fact, at first only a few pieces of scrap metal bobbing about nearby show there even was a crash here. Harry’s stomach shuts tight. He leans to the side just in time and vomits into the sea.

“Hello?” He calls out, but his voice is scratchy and raw. Maybe he did a lot of screaming as the plane went down that he can’t remember. He tries again. “Hello?  _ Hello?  _ Can anybody hear me?”

Harry has never been one to rationalise in times of crisis. He wishes he could be, but he’s just not that type of person. When he gets scared, when terror grips his heart in a vice hold, he shuts down. His mind goes blank. He screams until his voice gives out, and then he retches again but there’s nothing left in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten before he left the house.

He regrets that now. He may have survived a plane crash, but he doubts starvation will be as merciful. 

Harry lifts his head again. His vision swims, like he has a particularly bad hangover. It’s an effort, spinning in a slow circle; he has to use his hands like a paddle and he’s seconds away from passing out. He’s never felt so tired in his fucking life. But the effort is worth it, because suddenly he’s facing the opposite direction and something looms over him.

It’s an island, he realises belatedly. It’s a fucking island. He’s going to be okay.

Relief is a slap in the face. It shoots through his body like a zap of electricity, and he doesn’t waste a second before he grabs his glasses in one hand, rolls off the plank and ducks headfirst into the water. He’s not a great swimmer, but he kicks his legs and swings his arms wildly and he’s going forwards instead of backwards, so his technique doesn’t really matter. Every passing second, salvation gets closer and closer. Harry doesn’t even realise he’s crying until his breath catches and he hiccups. Only then does he become aware of his shoulders shaking, and the blurriness of his eyes.

Without his glasses it’s difficult to make much out, but when he gets closer he spots four of five blurry figures on the shore. One of them is jumping up and down, waving their arms. Another one is pacing the beach front. Most of them are sat, hugging their knees to their chests. Harry slides his glasses back into place in time to see one of the figures - the pacing one - catch sight of him and dive into the water straight away. His body is exhausted. He wants so badly to relax all his muscles, even if that means sinking to the bottom of the fucking sea. When a hand grabs his arm in a strong, firm grip, Harry shudders from the contact.

“Are you okay?” The person is saying, speaking so close to his face that their warm breath puffs over his ear. “Hey, look at me. Are you alright?”

Harry squints and wipes his glasses with his sleeve, even though all that does is smear water everywhere. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, still half out of it. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

The man pulls Harry onto land and as soon as he tries to stand up, his knees buckle. The man catches him around the waist and eases him to the ground carefully, sitting down next to him. He captures Harry’s face between his hands and stares at him so intently that Harry’s cheeks burn. 

“Look at me,” the man says. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Harry squints again. “Three,” he says. The man relaxes.

“Does anything hurt?”

“My head,” Harry tells him pitifully, rubbing at the back of his skull like he can make it better that way. The man frowns and tilts Harry’s chin up, inspecting his the back of his head first and then his face. He must be satisfied with whatever he finds there, because he pulls away with a short nod.

“You look fine,” he says. “You might have a concussion, but there’s nothing we can do about that. If you start to feel woozy, let me know.”

Harry blinks. There’s something vaguely familiar about the man in front of him. He has high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. His wet hair is dark and clings to his forehead, but his eyes are alert and piercing. Harry realises with a start that he saw this man only a few hours ago on the plane. He can’t remember his name. He doesn’t think they even spoke.

It hits him again, that this is real, that it isn’t just a nightmare or an elaborate daydream that Harry thought up. A flush creeps up his neck and his breath comes in quick and uneven. “What the fuck is happening?” He whimpers, clinging to the man’s wrist to ground himself.

The man sighs. He’s awfully calm for somebody who just washed up on shore after a plane crash that should have killed everybody on board, but his rationality makes everything easy to deal with. If everybody is freaking out, it’s just an echo chamber of fear. If one person goes ahead and takes the leadership role, it’s easier to pretend somebody at least knows what they’re doing.

“Look at me,” the man says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder briefly. “What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“Harry. Okay. I’m Tom.” He smiles, though it’s thin and doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a nice effort. “Do you remember what happened?”

Harry shakes his head. He should remember. He’s not gushing blood from a head wound or going blind at the edge of his vision. He  _ should  _ remember. But there’s a gap in his mind from when the warnings first started going off to waking up adrift at sea, like somebody highlighted that part of his memory and clicked delete. 

“Okay,” Tom says soothingly. Harry hadn’t realised, but he’s crying again. “It’s alright. Don’t worry. Nobody else can, either. The impact must have knocked us all out.”

Harry casts a curious glance the rest of their companions now that he’s able to see them clearly. None of them are paying him any attention. They all seem too caught up in their own person freak outs.

“Is this everyone?” Harry asks, looking to Tom like he has all the answers. It’s dangerous, taking control. It gives people hope. “Is this everyone that was on the plane?”

Tom looks grimly at the rest of the survivors. “No,” he says softly, almost as though he’s speaking to himself. “No, this isn’t everyone. There were eight people on the plane, not including the pilot and co-pilot. There are only six of us here. Four people are still out there.”

Harry swallows hard. He tries desperately to keep the panic at bay. “Maybe they just haven’t made it to shore yet?” He suggests. “Should we go looking for them?”

Tom turns to him sharply. His hand tightens around Harry’s wrist. Harry hadn’t realised they were still touching. “No. No, it’s not worth putting more people in danger for an uncertainy.”

“But what if they’re hurt? What if they need help? We could–”

_ “No.”  _ Tom’s raised voice has Harry falling silent. He feels bizarrely like he has just been reprimanded by a teacher.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

There are four others dotted along the shore. Harry recognises some them very faintly from the plane. There’s a tall man with a shock of red hair sitting with his toes curled into the wet sand. Next to him is a shivering woman with the same wide eyes and ginger hair. They must have come here together, but they aren’t speaking or hugging or crying in each others’ arms. A little way down the beach is a slight figure, sillouetted against the sun. Harry can just make out pale blonde hair and a bright pink sundress. And then, besides her, curled up into a tight, protective ball–

“Draco?”

Harry lurches to his feet. Tom sits back, startled, as Harry takes his first few stumbling steps on his own.

Draco looks up sharply at Harry’s shout. For a second, his features are wide open and vulnerable, unbearably raw. His eyes brim with unshed tears and he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, swaying from side to side like the wind might knock him over. Then he’s striding forward to meet Harry in the middle and, despite everything, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to hug him close. 

They have never been friends. Harry has never even liked Draco. He’s stuck up and snobby and cruel, but Harry has known him since reception and seeing him here, scared and alone but most importantly  _ alive _ , he’s so relieved he could cry.

Draco pulls back first and he wipes his eyes angrily with his sleeve. “Potter,” he says, voice wavering. “I didn’t see you on the plane.”

“Me neither,” Harry says. “It’s– I was– fuck. I’m glad you’re alive.”

Draco’s eyes soften for a second. Then he says, “Yeah. You too.”

“You two know each other?” Harry spins around at Tom’s voice, suddenly so close behind him. He feels caught out, like he’s been spotted doing something he shouldn’t, which is ridiculous.

“We went to school together,” he says lamely. 

Tom’s eyebrows pull together. “In London?” 

“Scotland,” Harry tells him. “It was a boarding school. It–”

“Does it fucking matter?” The woman from earlier stands up, eyes blazing, trembling from head to toe. “Jesus. Does it fucking matter where they went to school? What the fuck? What the fuck are we going to do?”

“Ginny–” Harry figures this must be her brother now, reaching out to her tentatively, but she bats his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” she snaps, and he flinches back.

Tom holds his hands up in a weak attempt to calm everybody down. “Okay, can we all just shut the fuck up for one second so I can think? The last thing we need is for people to start panicking–”

“Oh, I’m sorry for  _ panicking,”  _ Ginny spits. “My bad. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to fucking  _ die  _ or anything.”

“Ginny,” her brother tries again, louder this time. “You’ve got to relax.”

“I  _ really  _ need all of you to be quiet,” Tom cries. 

Draco staggers backwards and sinks to the floor, curling himself up into a small, tight ball again and rocking back and forward. He might be muttering things to himself, but Harry isn’t close enough to tell and it’s too loud to hear. All he can do is stand back watch as the group squabbles uselessly.

“Guys?”

Harry turns at the soft voice. The blonde woman is standing a few metres away, her dress-skirt rippling in the wind, one arm outstretched to the sea. Harry’s gaze follows her finger.

“Guys?” She tries again, but they’re still arguing too loudly to pay her any attention.

There’s a dot in the ocean, something bobbing up and down with the waves. It’s moving, but Harry can’t tell if it’s getting closer or further away. He also can’t tell if it’s moving itself, or if the water is just carrying it around.

“Hello?” It’s useless. She’s too quiet. 

Harry takes a few steps forward and blocks the sun with his hand. It’s getting closer, he can see now, and it’s almost shaped like–

“Oh my god,” he whispers. It’s a person. A person, and not a body. If they were dead, they would sink to the bottom. They’re still alive. 

He doesn’t wait another second. The sea is surprisingly warm when he crashed into it, but the force is so strong that it knocks his feet out from under him. He splashes around wildly, not caring about the water that gets up his nose or the blood rushing in his ears. There’s a person out there that he might still be able to save.

“Harry!” Someone yells behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. He ducks under the water to ignore the indistinguishable shouting, and then something grabs his ankle and yanks him backwards.

He comes back up, spluttering. Tom is behind him, trying to tug him back to shore. “What the fuck?” Harry screams, trying to kick him off. “Get off me!”

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” Tom yells back, but he’s already zeroed in on the person in front of them and he releases Harry’s ankle. “Go back to shore. I’ve got this.”

Harry doesn’t bother replying. He’s not wasting energy having an argument with Tom. He keeps kicking his feet, pushing himself forward, even though his body feels leaden. Tom shoots him a dirty look, but he doesn’t complain any further. 

Together, they swim further out to sea. The body, when they reach it, belongs to a woman whose name Harry thinks is Hermione. He sat opposite her on the plane and listened to her talk about uni applications for ten minutes straight. He’d been trying to avoid any and all conversation, but she’d either missed that social cue or ignored it entirely. 

“Grab her arm,” Tom tells him. “But don’t pull too hard. You could dislocate her shoulder.”

Harry loops her arm around his neck and watches as Tom does the same thing. She’s a deadweight between them, but Tom must be stronger than he looks because it’s surprisingly easy to swim to shore with her. The moment they reach land again, Ginny and her brother are waiting to help them up. Harry’s legs crumple again, and Tom drops Hermione entirely in order to catch Harry before he falls. The impact must startle her awake. She hits the sand and groans.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Tom hisses, lowly so that the others don’t hear. “I told you to stay on the beach. I told you it wasn’t worth it. You could have gotten yourself killed.” 

When Tom caught him, he wrapped one arm around Harry’s waist again and used the other to cradle the back of his head. Their faces are so close together that Harry can count the freckles on Tom’s nose. It’s such an intimate position that Harry is frozen for a fraction of a second.

“Hardly.” He blinks, not at all sure of what he’s saying. “I know how to swim. And she needed help. What was I supposed to do, leave her there?”

The look on Tom’s face suggests that that is actually what he would do. He lays Harry down carefully, and doesn’t say another word to him as he kneels down besides Hermione.

“Is she okay?”

“I think she’s waking up,” Ginny tells him, her voice thick with uncertainty. “But there’s– I think there’s something wrong with her ankle.”

Tom’s jaw clenches and he shuffles further down the beach to get a better look. Her trousers are already rolled up her leg, so he just tilts her foot from side to side to inspect the swelling.

“It doesn’t look broken,” he says eventually. “It’s probably just a sprain. But we’ll have to see if she can walk on it when she wakes up.”

The seven of them sit in silence for a momen. Harry watches them watch each other. The sun is still high in the sky and it doesn’t show signs of getting dark any time soon, but now there’s a chilly breeze in the air that has Harry rubbing his arms. His clothes are still soaking wet and heavy with absored water, which doesn’t help.

When Draco speaks, it shocks everybody back into reality. Harry wishes the silence could have lasted just a little bit longer.

“What do we do now?”

Isn’t that the million dollar question? 

It’s pretty telling, Harry thinks, that already everybody is looking at Tom for the answer. He’s cemented himself as their leader just by taking charge in these first few instances. Harry almost feels bad for him. He knows firsthand how much pressure premature responsibility is. But Tom takes it all in his stride. He looks around at the group of them and narrows his eyes.

“Names,” he says. “Everybody tell me your names.”

Ginny speaks first. “I’m Ginny,” she says, and points at her brother. “This is Ron.”

“Draco.” Harry has never heard him sound so small.

Tom looks to the blonde woman with raised eyebrows, and she meets his gaze steadily. “I’m Luna,” she says. “And you’re Tom. We spoke on the plane.”

Tom hesitates. It’s only for a moment, and only visible because Harry is looking so closely, but he sees it. “Yes,” Tom agrees. “We did.”

Harry steps forward and gives an awkward little wave. “I’m Harry,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure her name is Hermione. But– I don’t know. I might be wrong.”

“God forbid,” Draco mutters, and it’s kind of nice to see he’s back to his usual, snarky self, albeit a little toned down. Or a lot toned down.

A laugh bubbles up in Harry’s chest and he has to slap a hand over his mouth to stop it escaping. It’s all so fucked up. This whole situation is so fucked up, and now they’re standing around in a circle introducing themselves, exactly like they would be if they’d ever made it to this stupid fucking healing camp. Maybe they should all join hands and sing ‘Cumbaya’ together. 

Tom frowns at him, but moves on quickly. “There should be somebody else,” he says. “There was one other passenger, and the two pilots. Did any of you see anybody else in the water?”

He looks around expectantly, but everybody shakes their head. Harry curls his hands into fists. It makes him want to throw up again, thinking that any day, a body or three could wash up on shore. Somebody that they didn’t save, or that they didn’t even look for.

“Okay.” Tom’s voice is a beacon at this point. He’s pretty much speaking to himself, but it’s comforting that someone is speaking at all. “Okay, that’s fine. We can deal with that later. First, phones. Does anybody have a phone on them? Check all your pockets, even if you don’t think so. You don’t know what you might have missed.”

Harry’s pretty sure that even if his phone was in his pocket, it would be totally useless by now. The water would have killed it if the crash didn’t first. He checks all his pockets anyway, but comes up blank. Around him, it appears that everybody it having the same problem. Tom’s jaw gets tighter with every shrug and shaking head.

“Fuck,” he spits. “Alright. Well. I guess the next step is to look for things.”

“Things?” Ginny raises an eyebrow. 

“Bags, clothes, food. Anything that might have washed up on shore. Check the shallows as well. It might be stuck in the sand.”

“Oh, so we’re allowed in the water now then?” Harry doesn’t know what compels him to say it. Maybe it was the way Tom’s hand had curled around his ankle earlier. Maybe it’s how livid he had looked as he held Harry close and told him off. Maybe it’s just some stupid need for comfort. But it makes Tom snort with laughter, and some tight knot of tension in Harry’s chest loosens.

“Only the shallow end,” he says. “You can manage that, right?”

They split up. Tom and Luna go the furthest, heading away from each other to check the far sides of the beach. Harry trails after Tom, feeling vaguely pathetic, like a puppy with attachment issues. He wades into the sea again, wincing at the shells and pebbles underfoot.

“So,” he begins, clearing his throat. “You know a lot about this, huh?”

Tom looks round sharply. “What do you mean?”

Harry shrugs. “Just– survival and stuff. Like, what to do next. You haven’t been in a plane crash before, have you? Because if you have, your luck  _ sucks.” _

Tom’s lips curl upwards, and Harry counts it as a victory. “No other plane crashes,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I just know a lot about survival.”

“You watch a lot of out-in-the-wild shows?” Harry asks. “Bear Grylls, that sort of thing? You don’t look the type.”

Tom captures his gaze and raises one elegant eyebrow. Harry notices for the first time how stupidly attractive he is, and it makes his face flush with warmth. He looks away quickly. 

“What do I look like, then?” He asks.

Harry wishes he’d never said anything. “I don’t know. Bookish, I guess. Studious. You look like you should be in a library.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“Bookish is a compliment.”

Tom shrugs. “It is if you like books.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s backed himself into a corner and now, however he relies, it’s going to sound like he means more than he’s actually saying. Or maybe Harry is just overthinking this like usual and Tom couldn’t care less about Harry’s reading habits. That’s equally possible.

Luckily, he’s saved from having to answer. Unluckily, it’s because he rams his toe into something big and solid.

“Ow,  _ fuck,”  _ he spits, standing on one leg to check he isn’t bleeding. “That fucking hurt.”

He didn’t even notice Tom moving, but all of a sudden he’s at Harry’s side, his fingers like a vice around Harry’s upper arm. “What happened?” He asks, voice steely.

“I just stubbed my toe.”

He frowns and leans into the water, hand waving under the surface for a moment before he must find what he’s looking for. A satisfied smile spreads across his face and he hauls a heavy suitcase out of the water. Harry helps him tug it to shore.

“Is it yours?” Tom asks, running his fingers over the glossy lid. Harry shakes his head. There’s only one person who would be obnoxious enough to bring a suitcase worth a few hundred on a weekend trip abroad.

“It’s Draco’s,” he says. “It must be. This is watertight.”

“That’s good news,” Tom says, not sounding particularly happy about it. “Think he’ll have anything useful in here?”

“Oh, sure. If you think cashmere sweaters and dressing gowns are useful.”

Tom heaves a sigh. “Christ. I suppose we’re not in a position to turn anything away. Besides, you look like you could use a dressing gown right about now. You’re shivering.”

Harry stubbornly clenches his jaw so his teeth can’t chatter. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“Right.” Tom moves to unzip the suitcase, and guilt stirs in Harry’s stomach, hot and heavy. He grazes Tom’s hand lightly with his fingertips.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Draco?” He asks hesitantly. “I mean, it is his suitcase, technically.”

“If he has a problem with it, he can take it up with me.”

And that’s that.

In his defence, Tom doesn’t turn it inside out like Harry was expecting. He takes out the first coat he sees, shoves it in Harry’s direction and then zips the bag up again. Harry watches, stomach turning somersaults.

“Thanks,” he says. It’s a nice coat. It’s Draco’s, so of course it is, and whilst it feels weird to be wearing Malfoy’s clothes, it feels even nicer not to be freezing cold anymore. He slips his arms through it and holds it closed at the collar.

“We should go back,” Tom tells him. “See what the others have found. It’ll be dark soon, and we need to get some sort of fire going.”

Harry has to take quick, shuffling steps to keep up with Tom’s longer strides. “Do you know how to start a fire?” He asks. “I mean, that must be the first thing you learn in, like, survival camp or whatever.”

Tom tilts his head. Amusement plays at his lips but he keeps his face carefully blank when he says, “I can already tell you’re going to be  _ so  _ helpful.”

That shuts Harry up.

The others have already reconvened on the beach by the time Harry and Tom reach them. Ginny is holding a few cans of coke and Ron has wrapped a frayed length of rope around his hands, holding it like a trophy.

Tom sighs. “Great haul.”

Draco stands up. “Is that my coat?” He asks. His gaze drifts to the suitcase Tom is carrying, and it’s the first time Harry has seen him smile genuinely in years. “Fuck. Where’d you find it?”

“Harry found it,” Tom says. “It was almost washed up. Think you’ve got anything good in here?”

Draco moulds his features into something a little more casual and controlled. “It seems like you’ve already had a look, haven’t you?” But then his eyes soften, and he says, “Thank you,” so quietly that Harry almost doesn’t hear it.

It’s almost too good to be true when they find the food in Draco’s suitcase. He says he doesn’t remember packing it, that his father’s assistant must have snuck it in there when no one was looking, but nobody seems inclined to complain. Tom hands out the drinks and then looks around at the lot of them, a frown pulling his mouth down at the corners.

“We’re going to need to ration these,” he says. “At least until we know what we’re dealing with here.”

“What do you mean?” Harry is sitting so close to Tom that he’s almost tucked into his side. He’d feel a little ridiculous, if everybody else weren’t doing the same thing. Ginny and Ron are huddled together for warmth. Luna has one arm wrapped around Hermione and the other looped casually over Draco’s neck, even though he doesn’t look happy at the arrangement. Harry wonders if they all know each other. He wonders if he and Tom are the only ones that came alone.

“Well.” Tom clears his throat. “There might be food here somewhere. Animals, or plants. But there might not be. Until we find out, we have to be careful about how much we eat and how much we save. We–”

He stops himself just in time with a quick glance Ginny’s way, but it’s obvious what he was about to say. _ We don’t know how long we’re going to be here. We don’t know how long we can survive. _

“We’re going to die here.”

It’s so quiet, it almost goes unnoticed. The others don’t seem to register it. Draco has his face pressed against his knees when he says it so the words come out muffled. But Tom’s head jerks up like he’s been tased.

“We’re  _ not  _ going to die here,” he says sharply. “Someone will come for us.”

“Yeah,” Ron echoes, sounding less convinced. He wraps an arm around Ginny, and she leans her head on his shoulder. Her face is stained with tear tracks. She must have left to cry alone, because Harry never once saw it. “I bet they’re already looking for us. Right, Tom?”

Tom nods, mouth set in a grim straight line, eyes hard. “Right,” he says.

*

Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep at all that night, but he must drift off at some point. It’s a restless night. They’re all packed so close together, because the day may have been humid and bright but the night is dark and cold, and they want to conserve heat. His tossing and turning must disturb everybody at some point, because Tom groans frustratedly and pulls on Harry’s shoulder to roll him over.

“Lie still,” he grumbles, throwing an arm over Harry’s waist. “Or I’m going to have to knock you out.”

Harry’s eyes widen, unseen in the dark, but Tom must hear the hitch in his breathing, must  _ feel  _ it. Out of all the strange, unbelievable things to happen to Harry today, this has to be high on the list. 

He forces himself to relax. It’s cold, and Harry is restless, and Tom probably just wants to get a better night’s sleep. He needs to calm down and stop thinking that every little thing that happens is a threat, or suspicious. 

He doesn’t reply. Tom’s chest is warm against his back and his arm is heavy where draped across Harry’s body. After a while, Tom’s breath evens out and his breath tickles Harry’s neck. He must fall asleep.

Harry thinks about Sirius. He thinks about how awful he must feel right now, how guilty, how scared. His heart aches with how badly he wants to reach out and pull Sirius into a hug, wants to have those arms around him, wants the comfort of unconditional love and support. Maybe Tom has the right idea. Who knows how long they can survive here without the people they love?

He doesn’t know how much time passes. The sun, when it rises, casts a red glow on the insides of Harry’s eyelids and all of a sudden the air isn’t so cold anymore.

And then a phone rings.

Harry freezes. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it. Maybe this is a stress induced hallucination. Maybe he’s actually asleep, and this is all a dream. If a helicopter suddenly lands on the beach to take them home, Harry will know he’s losing his grip on reality. 

But it just keeps ringing. Sand is gritty under Harry’s cheek. The warmth of the sun kisses his skin. He’s awake. This is real.

He jerks up and grips Tom’s shoulder tight enough to leave bruises. “Tom,” he says, heart thumping wildly in his chest.  _ “Tom.  _ Wake up, holy shit.”

He follows the noise through the huddle of bodies nearby, all the way over to Draco’s suitcase. There’s a heavy, tight feeling in Harry’s stomach that he can’t quite shake. Behind him, Tom begins to stir.

“What?” He asks, rubbing his eyes blearily. “Harry? What’s going on?”

“There’s a phone,” Harry gasps. “Fuck.  _ A phone is ringing.” _

He throws the lid open and rips through the clothes inside. He tosses them out and leaves them abandoned in the sand until he sees it: there, at the very bottom, tucked away inside a lone sock. It’s a brand new fucking iPhone. Not the sort of thing you forget about. 

And it’s still ringing.

“Holy shit,” Tom says. “Give it to me.”

Harry doesn’t think twice. They don’t have time to argue, not when the battery is running so low and this might be their one shot at survival. He shoves the phone into Tom’s hands.

Ginny shuffles at all the noise, and when she pokes her head up and squints at them, her mouth drops open.

“Is that–”

“Hello?” Tom snaps. The others begin to wake up.

“Tom?” Harry’s pulse races. He bites his cheek so hard that he tastes blood at the back of his throat.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Tom, what are they saying? Who is it?” 

“If you can hear me, we’re–”

Tom stops mid sentence. His face goes very pale, his features slack. Harry’s heart sinks. He already knows what Tom will say next, but it still feels like a punch to the gut when Tom turns to him and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It died,” he says, quiet and deadly. “It fucking died.”

Harry sits back on his heels. Helplessness crashes over him again, even stronger now than when he first woke up, stranded and alone. To have that sliver of hope, to have this one chance, and then for it to be yanked away so brutally– it’s devastating.

“What is that? What’s going on?”

Tom looks up sharply at the new voice. Draco stands about a foot away, eyes darting between the suitcase, the phone in Tom’s hand and Tom’s stony face. He shuffles from foot to foot.

“Everybody get up,” Tom says, hands curling into fists. “We need to talk.”

  
  



	2. Day Two

“It’s not mine,” is the first thing Draco says. “I don’t know where that came from but I swear, it’s not mine.”

Ginny scoffs. “Oh, so it just randomly ended up in your suitcase then? Kind of funny, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t say that! Jesus, my dad’s assistant probably put it in there along with the food. Why are you acting like I did this on purpose?”

“Because you had a phone this whole time and you forgot about it! If we’d found that earlier, we could have called for help. We could’ve been found by now!”

“I didn’t  _ forget,”  _ Draco seethes. “I didn’t  _ know.  _ It’s not mine, alright?”

Harry watches all of this unfold with apathy. He wants to curl up into a ball and go to sleep, and wake up in his own bed, away from all of this. What does it matter if Draco is telling the truth or not? They had a phone, and now they don’t. They had a chance, and now it’s gone.

Apparently Tom doesn’t feel the same. He clears his throat, and the others fall silent. Harry wonders what it’s like, having that power for no real reason. He must be freaking out on the inside, right? There’s no way he’s really this calm.

“Yelling about it won’t change anything,” Tom says, and Harry is relieved to find Tom agrees with him. “What we need to do is make sure nothing like this ever happens again.”

“What, you think I’m hiding a fucking laptop in there as well?” Draco snaps, jerking his arm out. “Go ahead. Turn it inside out. If there’s anything else in there that we can use, I don’t know about it.”

“I should have known you wouldn’t pack your own suitcase,” Harry snorts. He means it as a joke, mostly, but Draco’s eyes blaze and Harry can practically see the steam pouring from his ears. He holds his hands up in surrender. “Jeez, sorry.”

Tom looks between them with narrowed eyes. He might be imagining it, but Tom seems to inch closer to him. “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he tells Draco, and then addresses all of them. “We need to keep an inventory. Everything we’ve got, everything we find, we need to record it. That way, we can figure out how long we can last with what we’ve got.”

“Cheery,” Ron mutters. Ginny elbows him.

“It’s a good idea,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

But Tom is already shaking his head. “No. We need to check out the island. All of it. You should come with me.”

Ginny blinks. For a moment Harry thinks she might try and argue with him - and he’s kind of curious, actually, to see what Tom would look like angry, to see if he can get even more intense than usual - but she just shrugs and nods.

“Good idea,” she says.

“I’ll come too,” Harry blurts out. He does want to see the island, even if he knows nothing about survival and probably won’t be any help anyway, but mostly he doesn’t want to be left on his own. 

And that’s worrying, isn’t it? He’d be here with the others. He wouldn’t be  _ alone.  _ Hermione definitely can’t walk anywhere, and he doesn’t think Draco will volunteer himself any time soon, but already Harry feels safer with Tom around. It’s normal, he tells himself. Everyone else here already picked their groups. It’s okay for Harry to want to stay with Tom. 

But Tom says, “No. You stay here,” with so much finality that you’d think they had a whole conversation about it beforehand. 

Harry’s lips part in a silent protest. He looks around at the others like they might be in on the joke, but nobody laughs.

“What?”

Tom levels him with a steady gaze. “You’re staying here,” he says. “You and Hermione can do the inventory.”

“I want to come with you,” Harry says, and then winces at how needy and pathetic that sounds. “I mean, I want to explore the island. I want to see what we’re working with here, for fuck’s sake.”

But nothing seems to sway Tom. He’s resolute in his ridiculous decision. 

“It’s like I said yesterday,” he says. “There’s no point all of us going and all of us getting hurt. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Until we do, you should stay on the beach.” Then he seems to remember that he isn’t just addressing Harry, and he turns to the rest of them. “You should all stay on the beach. There's safety in numbers.”

“You– you don’t get to decide what I do,” Harry splutters. “I don’t have to do what you fucking tell me.”

Tom frowns, puzzled, like he genuinely can’t see what the issue is here. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

Ginny says, “Should I be offended?”

Tom’s jaw tics. He looks seconds away from dropping his head into his hands or running in the opposite direction. “Ginny, Ron and I will look around the island. Harry, Hermione and Draco, you do the inventory. Be thorough.”

“And Luna,” Hermione says.

“What?”

“You forgot Luna.”

It’s kind of easy to do, even though Harry feels guilty for thinking it. She’s hardly said a word since they got here. Maybe she’s in shock.

“Okay, and Luna,” Tom says.

Silence stretches on for a beat too long, and after a moment’s discomfort, Ron starts up a stream of mindless chatter. With the distraction, Tom turns to Harry and whispers low into his ear.

“I mean it, okay? Stay on the beach. Don’t go running off into the sea again, trying to be a hero.”

“So you’d rather I let someone else drown?” Harry snaps. He feels brittle and quick to anger, but that hasn’t been a rare thing these past few years. 

Then, without warning, Tom’s large hand cups the nape of Harry’s neck, fingers splayed out, skin warm and calloused against Harry’s. “I’d much rather you stay safe, actually,” he says, and Harry suppresses a shiver.

He shouldn't just agree to this. He should fight back, argue some more, show Tom that he does, in fact, have a backbone. He may not want to be the leader, but that doesn’t mean that Harry is okay with getting pushed around.

But he looks at Tom’s face, so close, and at the sincerity in his eyes, and all his resolve slips away like sand through his fingers. He leans back into Tom’s touch and nods.

“Alright.”

“Thank you,” Tom murmurs. His gaze darts between Harry’s eyes and his lips and– Harry can’t be imagining it, the tension between them. He almost thinks Tom is going to lean in and kiss him, even if it’s only on the cheek, but he moves away and Harry mourns the pressure against the back of his neck. 

“We should leave soon. We want to make the most of the daylight.” Tom stands up and brushes down his clothes, as though he can wipe away the sand and dirt. Harry is swarmed with images, unbidden and shocking: Tom bathing in the sea, shirt off, dripping wet…

Fuck. The last thing he needs, on top of everything else, is a stupid crush. 

They eat, and then they leave. Ron has the decency to smile apologetically before he disappears after the others. Harry is left behind with his school nemesis and two total strangers. Already, anxiety makes a nest in his stomach.

Hermione doesn’t appear to have the same problem. “I’ll make the list,” she says briskly. “There was a notebook in your suitcase, right Draco?”

Draco shrugs, silent and moody. Hermione doesn’t let this stop her.

“If not I can just write it in the sand,” she chirps, shuffling towards the bag. Harry nudges it closer to her with his foot and she smiles at him gratefully.

She finds a notebook and a pen that still works, which seems awfully lucky all things considered. As she makes a list, she keeps one eye trained on all of them as though tracking suspicious movements. She’s probably writing their names down too.

“We should get to know each other,” she says eventually. “We should do, like, an ice breaker thing. This is way too awkward for me and we haven’t even made it a full day yet.”

Draco turns his face away pointedly, and Luna is in her own world, collecting shells and burying them in the sand. Harry sighs, knowing that he’ll have to take one for the team and be sociable.

“What did you have in mind?”

Hermione’s whole face lights up with her smile. She clearly hadn’t expected anyone to take her up on the suggestion. “I don’t know, really,” she says. “Just tell me a bit about yourself.”

“I’m a really boring person.”

Hermione’s mouth pulls down at the corners. Harry can’t tell whether that frown is disapproval or disappointment. “None of us are boring anymore,” she says.

Harry will concede to that.

“Okay.” He shrugs. “But there really isn’t much to tell. I’m eighteen. I’m graduating school this year. I live in London with my godfather. That’s about it.”

Hermione tilts her head. “I’m eighteen, too. I’m supposed to be going to Oxford in September. I wonder if I’ll be allowed to defer my place.” 

That makes Harry bark with laughter, but he tries to recompose himself when he realises that she isn’t joking. It’s a crazy thing to worry about, all things considered, but he kind of gets where she’s coming from. It’s easier to worry about what life will be like when they get home than to worry about whether they’ll get home at all.

Hermione says, “If your life is so boring, why were you here in the first place?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’re supposed to be at a wellness retreat right now, right? For people who want to reconnect with their lives and find joy in the day-to-day.”

“Are you quoting the brochure?” Harry asks. Hermione flushes.

“I’m just saying, why would your parents send you to a place like that if your life is completely normal and boring.”

Harry shifts on the spot. “My godfather,” he reminds her, uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to talk about this with a stranger, but he especially doesn’t want to talk about it with Draco sitting right there. 

Just like that, anger bubbles up in his stomach again. He’s done a good job so far of keeping it pushed down, but now it rears up and he digs his nails into his palm to calm down. This stupid, pointless camp is the reason he’s in this mess in the first place. He  _ told  _ Sirius he didn’t want to go. He said it would be a waste of time. He said it wouldn’t make anything better.

But Sirius insisted. And look where that got them.

It’s not fair of him to blame Sirius and he knows it. When he gets out of here, he will never, ever make Sirius feel guilty for what happened. But now, stranded and alone, in the privacy of his own head, he can think these things. It doesn’t matter anyway.

“Fine.” Hermione shrugs when it becomes obvious he isn’t going to answer her question. “Be mysterious, if you must. Personally, I don’t think it’s a big deal. Like, this is hardly real life, you know? If we can’t be totally free and honest here, where can we?”

Harry leans back and watches her scribble into the notebook with heavy lidded eyes. He didn’t get much rest last night, and the sun is making him sleepy. He wishes Tom were here to press back against.

“Go on, then. Why are you here, if it’s no big deal?”

Hermione eyes him thoughtfully before she smiles. “I had a minor mental breakdown,” she says.

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“A minor mental breakdown.”

Harry frowns. “I didn’t know mental breakdowns could be minor.”

“Oh, they can be. This one was very minor. My parents thought I was studying too hard, and I ended up taking some of my friend’s adderall. It was literally one time only, but when they found out about it, that was the last straw. They found this retreat online and decided I was going.”

“You didn’t say no?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “Did you?”

“Fair enough. If it makes you feel any better, I think Oxford kind of have to take you now. Like, even if you don’t get the grades. It would be a really bad look for them if they rejected the traumatised plane crash survivor.”

“I know,” Hermione sighs. “But I was really looking forward to my A Levels.”

Harry decides he’s done with that particular conversation. He tips his head back against the sun and his eyes slip closed. He could go back to sleep, but then he’d be up all night. Besides, he’s not sure how comfortable he feels sleeping in front of these people. It’s one thing if they’re all doing it, but if it’s just him then he’s too self conscious.

He’s  _ bored.  _ That’s the problem. He’s really fucking bored. Hermione has taken charge of the inventory, Tom left to go scope out the island without him and made Harry swear to stay on the beach. There’s probably an implication there to not do anything stupid or reckless either. He’s just so bored, sitting there, waiting and waiting. That’s all they’re going to be doing while they’re here. Waiting and surviving.

Across from him, Draco stretches out his legs and yawns. The opportunity for entertainment smacks Harry in the forehead.

“I’m surprised you’re here, Malfoy,” he says, mildly curious. “Did you want to come? Or did your parents make you too?”

Draco must think he’s being made fun of, because he scowls and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “None of your fucking business, Potter.”

“Jesus, calm down. I was just asking. I just wouldn’t have thought your family would buy into this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Wellness retreats. Therapy. That sort of thing.”

Draco clenches his jaw. “Fuck off,” he says. “I’m sorry we can’t all be like your hippie godfather.”

Irritation prickles Harry’s skin. It’s familiar, almost fun, having an outlet for all his pent up fear and frustration. The fact that once again that outlet is Draco is a total coincidence.

“It must have been a punishment, then,” Harry pushes, well aware that he’s playing with fire. “Your dad would have flown you on a private plane otherwise. You must have really pissed him off this time, huh?”

“And I’m sure this is a holiday for you,” Draco snaps. 

“Maybe not, but at least they were trying to help when they sent  _ me  _ away.”

“If I had to live with a murderer, I’d  _ want _ to be sent away.”

Harry jerks back as though he’s been slapped. Surprise flashes across Draco’s face, like maybe he didn’t even mean to say that, but the damage has already been done. Harry jumps to his feet and shoves Draco’s chest when he stands too.

“Take that back,” he says, eyes blazing.

“Why?” Draco tilts his chin up. “It’s the truth.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Humiliatingly, tears well in Harry’s eyes and he blinks them back furiously. It’s almost a relief when Hermione gets involved.

“You two,” she says, voice wavering with uncertainty. “Don’t start a fight. I won’t be able to separate you with my ankle like this.”

Harry turns on his heel and stalks away down the beach. He doesn’t want anybody to see him cry and, as angry as he is, he doesn’t want to hurt Draco. At least, he knows that he’d regret it once he calmed down. Nobody follows him.

There’s a driftwood log pushed against the grassy hill behind them, near where he and Tom found the suitcase yesterday, so he takes a seat on that and looks out to sea. He’s tense all over: muscles tight and ready to spring into action, chest clenching. His eyes are tired as well. There’s a dull throb building at his temples.

He shouldn't have said that to Draco. He shouldn't have pushed him so much, and definitely not about his father. Everybody knows it’s a sore spot for him. But it had felt so good, in the moment, to go back to normal. To release some of his pent up anger. He’s all screwed up inside, and sometimes he thinks the only way to feel better again is to fight. Maybe there is some darkness inside him, some cruelty that he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

But Draco was wrong. What he said about Sirius– he couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Harry is exhausted. He shuffles around a little so that he’s flat on his back, arms tucked under his head. The sky is so blue above him, and completely cloudless. It would be beautiful if it weren’t the very last thing he wants to see right now. He longs for the boring, chipped paint of his bedroom ceiling. 

He’s not sure how long it takes him to lose consciousness, but it happens at some point. In his mind, he hears the grinding metal, the blare of a horn, a high pitched screaming. He wakes up with his heart pounding, drenched head to toe in a cold sweat that he had though, in his dream, to be water.

“Easy,” Tom says, stroking Harry’s shoulders slightly. His back is resting on the log next to Harry’s head. One leg is bent at the knee and drawn up to his chest. The other stretches out, sinfully long. Harry notices idly that his socks don’t have any holes in them.

“Uh,” Harry groans, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Oh, let me just check my phone.” Tom smirks at Harry’s unimpressed expression. “Sorry. Too soon?”

“When did you get back?”

“Not long ago. What are you doing all the way out here? Hermione says you and Draco had a fight.”

“Tattletale,” Harry mutters. “I didn’t leave the beach, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just wanted to be alone for a bit. And it wasn’t a fight. It was a… disagreement.”

“What about?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Harry isn’t about to bring up their whole complicated history, let alone their home troubles. It would feel like a betrayal of whatever familiarity binds them together, to tell Draco’s story without his permission. And he doesn’t want to explain Sirius if he doesn’t have to. “How did the expedition go? Did you find anything?”

Tom winces. “Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?” Harry shakes himself awake enough to sit upright. This doesn’t feel like a conversation to have horizontally.

“Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

“Is the good news more good than the bad news is bad?”

Tom wrinkles his nose up. It’s ridiculously cute. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “And I really can’t be bothered to figure it out. Good news or bad news?”

“I guess the good news, then.”

Tom grins - and Harry loves that, that grin, the warmth that spreads from his chest to the tips of his fingers in his wake. It feels like he’s made the right decision, and that smile is his reward. Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of berries. A few of them are squashed and the juice dribbles, obscenely red, down Tom’s fingers.

“We found food,” he says.

“ _ Fuck  _ yes.” Harry straightens up. Without thinking, his arm shoots out and he grabs hold of Tom’s wrist, like he thought Tom might try to snatch the food away again. His cheeks colour. “Sorry, sorry. That’s just– that’s great.”

Tom gives him a funny look. He captures Harry’s wrist before he can withdraw his arm completely, and with gentle fingers, turns Harry’s cupped palm upwards. He tips the berries into his waiting hand. 

“I checked first,” he tells Harry. “They’re not poisonous, so don’t worry.”

“What if they had been?”

Tom shrugs. “It would have been a bad day for me.”

Harry shoves him. “That’s not funny. We’d be fucked without you.”

“Is this your way of saying you’d miss me?”

Harry swallows hard and pops a berry into his mouth. Sweetness bursts on his tongue and it’s such a relief, not to have to worry about starving to death at least for the next few days, that for the most part he can ignore his embarrassment.

“Who else would test for poison?”

“Ah, that makes sense.” Tom nods. His lips twitch. “My mistake. We’ll have to go back later with something to carry them in. We might have to empty the suitcase out and take that.”

Harry snorts. “Good luck getting Draco to agree to that. It’d stain.”

Tom tilts his head. For a moment, Harry thinks he might say something. Then, shockingly, his hand lands on Harry’s leg, just above his knee. Harry’s breath hitches. 

“I take it you weren’t friends at school, then?” He asks.

Harry is finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. “Nope. What’s the bad news?”

Instantly, Tom’s face hardens. Harry wishes he could take the question back, let Tom forget whatever it is for just a little bit longer. It was so much easier, so much nicer, when it was just the two of them joking around. He doesn’t want real life to come in and ruin it. At the same time, his palms get sweaty and his anxiety crests like a wave. Tom’s hand tightens on Harry’s thigh. He looks over his shoulder.

“I expect Ginny has already told the others,” he says, and sighs. “We got up to the top. It took a couple of hours but we managed to reach a peak on one of the hillsides. You could see the whole island from up there.”

Harry’s mouth is dry. “And?” He prompts, not so sure he wants to hear the answer.

“And,” Tom answers grimly. “There’s nothing. There’s nothing anywhere. No land. No boats. Not in any direction. We’re completely stranded here.”

Harry’s heart sinks through to his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut to stop panic from descending. As hard as he tries, he can’t remember the last thing he said to Sirius.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Tom grasps his wrists gently and tugs them away. 

“It’s okay,” he says, uncharacteristically soft.

“It’s not. They don’t know where to look for us. They don’t know where we are. We’re gonna die out here.”

“You’re not. Harry, you’re not going to die here. I know it.”

Harry, whose hands are still clasped in Tom’s, can’t wipe away his tears. He sniffles pathetically. “How do you know? How can you say that and sound so– so fucking  _ sure  _ of yourself.”

Tom smiles sadly. His thumb strokes Harry’s knuckles lightly. “I just have a feeling,” he says. “I just have this feeling. Trust me.”

And Harry does. It may be a mistake. But he already does.

“It’s just so… weird, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” Harry takes his fingers through his hair. It’s warming up again, and he still has that headache. He wants a drink desperately, but they have to be careful with their rations. “I don’t even know what I’m saying, really. It just doesn’t feel real. And– I mean, don’t you think it’s kind of weird how we don’t remember anything at all from the crash?”

A little furrow appears between Tom’s eyebrows that Harry wants to smooth away with his thumb. “I suppose. We were unconscious, though.”

“Before the plane even hit the water?”

Tom’s frown deepens. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Personally, I’m glad you don’t remember that horribly traumatic event. Aren’t you?”

Harry let’s a beat of silence go by before he says, “Yeah. Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise. I’d rather you tell me what you’re thinking, always.” The hand that was on Harry’s leg before lifts, and before Harry can miss the touch, Tom wraps his arm around Harry’s waist. Tom is constantly touching him somewhere: his neck, his waist, his leg, his hand. It’s so casual, but it  _ must  _ be deliberate. Harry just doesn’t know why. It flusters him every time, but he’s determined not to mention it.

“Thanks,” he says. “I guess. I don’t know. Maybe this place is just making me crazy already.”

Tom hums. “If you start talking to a coconut, let me know, okay?”

“That’s not the weird part. You only need to worry if the coconut starts talking back.”

Tom laughs, and that strange pride is back, warring with the ache at Harry’s temples. Though he’d never admit it, he burrows further into Tom’s side.

“We should probably go back soon.”

“Okay,” Tom says in a measured tone. 

Harry can’t help looking up at him, taking in the sharp jut of his jaw, his long, corded throat. “Do you want to?” He asks.

“Harry,” Tom replies. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”


	3. Day Five

They find a routine, of sorts. It’s pretty uneventful. There’s not much to do, cut off from the rest of the world, and any form of exercise would only make them more dehydrated, so there’s a lot of sitting around and talking. Harry gets to know the others, and even manages to make Ginny laugh at one point, which he feels inordinately proud of.

Tom rarely gets involved, but Harry expected that. Despite how friendly he is when they’re alone, it’s clear that he’s uncomfortable with the others. He doesn’t talk much, other than to give instructions or announce new plans. Harry’s heart grows a little heavier every time Tom is closed off and quiet. 

The nights get a little warmer, but Tom still sleeps close enough for Harry to feel his body heat, and Harry never tries to stop him. That’s a part of their routine now, as well.

Unfortunately, that means that waking up in the middle of the night to take a piss becomes a lot more difficult. Tom’s arm is heavy where it’s draped over him, and at some point in the night their legs had tangled together. He shifts minutely, and Tom stirs behind him.

They haven’t talked about it, this closeness between them, but that’s a relief too. Harry doesn’t know what he’d even say. It’s probably just something born of loneliness and desperation; this desire to be close to somebody when the rest of your life has been yanked away. Still, he kind of wishes Tom would be a little clearer about what it all means when he literally spoons Harry to sleep every night.

Harry shifts again, and this time he’s able to roll out from under Tom’s arm without waking him up. These past few days, Harry has discovered that Tom is a light sleeper. The slightest noise or movement can wake him up, as though he’s only ever half asleep. The others are still huddled together, snoring lightly with their heads pillowed on some of Draco’s folded clothes. Harry picks his way over them and heads towards the woods. 

The trees here are so tall that they disappear into the dusky sky. He still hasn’t properly looked around the island, but he doesn’t particularly want to go exploring on his own before the sun is out. He only walks until he finds a clearing in the trees.

Afterwards, he picks his way back to the beach and makes a beeline to the sea. His soul hasn’t been completely crushed yet. He’s not going to stop washing his hands as best he can until he’s properly accepted death.

As he’s drying his hands on his t-shirt, Harry notices something further down the beach, washed up to shore. It’s half in, half out of the water, too lumpy to be a rock, too big to be another suitcase. Harry squints and wipes his glasses. Something sprouts at one end and splays against the sand like seaweed–

Or, Harry realises, like hair.

He starts running. His lungs burn and he must bring his foot down hard onto a jagged shard of wood because pain lances up his leg sharp and sudden, but he doesn’t stop moving. He can’t. The shape is getting bigger and bigger and the closer Harry gets, the more he can make out. The person is slumped over, legs submerged in the water. They have their back to Harry, a tatty rucksack still slung across one shoulder, but one arm is stretched above their head, and their hand lies limp against the ground.

_No,_ Harry thinks. _Please, please no._

He falls to his knees beside the person. His hands tremble as he grabs their shoulder and turns them over. They don’t protest. They don’t stir. 

Harry realises, with the slow motion sickness of a car crash, that this person is dead. His eyes are open. His face is bloated. One side of his head is stained red with blood from a gash at his temple. Harry lurches to the side and throws up. The world blurs around him. 

What do you do? What _can_ you do, in a situation like this? 

He shuts his eyes tight. He can’t stand to look at it. At _him._

How long has he been here like this, washed up on the beach while they slept? Was he dead before Harry even reached the island? Or did he last longer than that– adrift at sea, too hurt to move, frightened and alone and desperately hoping that someone would come looking for him?

Harry throws up again. His shoulders shake with sobs, the kind that wrack your whole body and leave you exhausted for hours afterwards.

He has no way of knowing how long he sits there for. There is no way of telling the time here, or even knowing what the day is. It’s that slow disorientation that poisons your mind, Harry thinks. He understands now, better than ever, how a person could go mad in a place like this. 

He needs to go tell the others, needs to tell Tom, but he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to make this a reality. In the early morning darkness, it’s easier to pretend this is a nightmare. Maybe, if he’s quiet and careful, he can sneak back to the camp and tuck himself against Tom’s chest and let Tom’s warmth banish the chill from his blood.

But he can’t do that. He knows it. He won’t be sleeping for a long time after this. 

_“Help.”_ He finds his voice, but it’s weak and inaudible. The next time he tries, he’s louder. “Help! Wake up!”

He’s distantly aware of shouts from the group, of footsteps getting nearer, but he doesn’t look up. His face is buried in his knees. He can’t stand to see–

“Oh my god,” Ginny says in a choked voice. “Fuck. _Fuck.”_

“I found him here,” Harry says. “He was just… washed up. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Is that–”

“Cedric,” Hermione says. With one arm flung over Lima’s shoulder and her bad ankle dragging behind her, she hangs behind the others. Tears well up in her eyes. Her hand flies to cover her mouth. 

“Was he–” Ron starts, and clears his throat. “Was he the other passenger?”

Hermione shudders. “We talked on the plane. He was– he was really nice.”

Tom is at Harry’s side, but he isn’t touching him, wrapping an arm around his waist or holding his hand like he does all the time. He hasn’t said a word. 

Harry pushes himself to his feet and grips tentatively at Tom’s hand. “Tom,” he says, the words, ‘what do we do?’ on the tip of his tongue– and he stops, at the last moment. 

Beside him, Tom has gone very still, and very pale. He looks, for the first time since they arrived, like he has absolutely no idea what to do next. His eyes are wide, lips slightly parted, frozen in horror. He’s taken charge of everything so far, taken the burden off their shoulders, and Harry–

Harry can’t ask him to do this too. He can’t make Tom deal with this. 

“We should bury him,” Harry says, voice only trembling a little. “We need to bury him.”

Tom stares at him. Tiny flecks of green speckle his eyes. His throat moves as he swallows, and his chest heaves. He nods.

“Yes,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “We should bury him.”

They dig for an hour. Nobody says anything for a long time, and as they work, Tom pulls himself back together. Harry sees it happening right in front of him, the way Tom’s careful mask falls into place, the way his terror slips into indifference and finally determination. The others are crying, silent tears that roll down their faces. Even Ron, who has done a good job of keeping it together, looks shaken up by this. Who wouldn’t?

“We need to bring him here,” Tom says, and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “Someone– someone needs to help me carry him.”

“I will,” Harry says straight away. He doesn’t have any particular urge to go running back to Cedric’s body, but he can’t let Tom go back there alone, and nobody else is going to volunteer.

“No, you shouldn’t. You found him,” Tom says, but he isn’t as insistent as he’s been in the past. That sliver of humanity, of vulnerability, is enough to harden Harry’s resolve.

“It’s alright, Tom,” he says, and takes Tom’s hand. “It’s fine. Let’s just do it, okay? Let’s just get it done.”

Tom gives a short, sharp nod. When they reach the body, Tom takes his hands and Harry takes his feet. They move slowly and silently, both too trapped in their own thoughts to speak. The others clear a path to the grave, and Tom moves to lay him down.

“Wait!” Ginny steps forward. Her cheeks flush. “Sorry. I just– his backpack. Shouldn’t we…”

“Jesus,” Draco snaps. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just being practical!”

“She’s right,” Tom says grimly. “Let’s– we should check, at least. There’s no point wasting it, if there are supplies in there.”

Gingerly, Harry lays Cedric’s feet on the floor. Tom still has him under the armpits so Harry takes one strap of his rucksack and slips it past his hand. As he does the same on the other side, his fingers brush against Cedric’s hand. His skin is cold and Harry jerks back, chest heaving.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Sorry. Sorry.”

The backpack falls to the floor and Ginny scrambles to pick it up. A clinking noise like glass hitting glass makes them all pause. Ginny’s hand flies to the zip, but Ron stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Ginny,” he says softly. “Maybe we should…”

“Right. Of course, yeah.”

She puts it down carefully, and everybody watches as Tom lowers Cedric into the grave. It’s a team effort, filling it in again. They’re on their hands and knees, pushing sand over his body and trying to avoid touching him at the same time. Harry wants to be sick. Once again, a hot flush of anger crawls over his skin. He should be on a fucking holiday right now. He _should_ be sipping virgin cocktails by a swimming pool, or taking part in a fucking guided meditation session. He shouldn't be burying a body. None of them should.

Luna sits back on her heels when they’re finished. “Should we say something?” She asks.

“None of us knew him,” Draco says. “What would we say?”

They’re silent again, until Ginny pushes to her feet and says, “I’m sorry he died.”

It’s ridiculous, and in any other situation it would sound mocking or rude. But Harry finds that it’s the perfect thing to say. It’s the only thing they can really say about him, and fully mean.

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Me too.”

*

The somber atmosphere lasts all evening. Harry won’t be surprised if it lasts all week, or all year, or the rest of their lives. 

Tom disappeared as soon as they got back. Harry had been tempted to follow him, but he’d looked so sick and so determined to leave unhindered that he’d decided against it in the end. It makes sense, that he wants to be alone right now. He just held a dead body to his chest and buried him.

The others gather in a circle. Draco stuffs his fist against his mouth and digs his toes into the sand. Hermione massages her ankle. She must have hurt it, moving around so much. Ginny holds the bag to her chest like she’s afraid it’ll vanish if she doesn’t have eyes on it every second. When they got back to camp, she’d sat down and pulled it onto her lap.

“I’m opening it now,” she says, tone leaving no room for argument. “There’s no point waiting for Tom.”

She unzips it slowly, carefully. If there really is glass inside, the very last thing they want to do is break it.

And that– that’s…

Harry doesn’t want to think about that. About what it means. Too much has happened today, and if they’ve got something good, he doesn’t want to ruin it for himself.

Except Ginny peers into the bag and her face goes slack, and she says, “Holy shit. Holy fucking _shit.”_

“What?” Ron crowds her, trying to look inside. “What is it?”

“This is–” she looks at each of them, eyes wide in disbelief, and actually _laughs._ “This is incredible. This is everything we need.”

Harry watches with a gnawing feeling in his chest as she takes out painkillers, bandages, a lighter. There are four miniature bottles of alcohol– the medicinal kind. Each new find seems more bizarre than the last. Harry’s head feels stuffy. 

“Hermione, here,” Ginny says, grinning, holding out a painkiller. “This should make you feel better.”

“Thanks,” Hermione replies. She’s smiling, but the longer she looks the more it fades. She holds the pill up like a toast. “To Cedric.”

Harry swallows. He wishes Tom were here. “To Cedric,” he whispers.

*

Ron finds him amongst the trees. There’s a clearing, not so far from the beach, where the canopy overhead recedes at the edges and a perfect circle of sunlight can shine against the ground. Harry sits cross-legged in the middle of it, trying to quieten his mind. Earlier, he had fought against the urge to smash his fist into a tree until his knuckles were bloody.

“Hey,” Ron says, approaching slowly. “I thought I’d come check up on you. Are you doing alright?”

Harry tucks his knees to his chest and shrugs. The parameters of ‘alright’ are very different these days, and Harry isn’t sure he knows what they are yet. “Sure,” he says. “Just freaked out. You?”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, taking a seat next to Harry. “Ginny’s happy. I mean, obviously she’s not, like, _happy._ It’s fucked up. What happened to Cedric, I mean. But, like, that bag was a godsend.”

Harry snorts. “You can say that again.”

Ron tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Sorry. You’re right, it was a lucky find.”

Ron picks at the grass around them idly. His stubble has grown out a bit, but he looks fairly put together. Harry wonders what he looks like. He never had to shave much before, but he must be grimy all over. Taking baths in the sea is not ideal.

It’s easy, sitting here with Ron. Harry is surprised by how comfortable he feels. With the others, with the exception of Tom, he always feels like he has to fill the silence, or smile, or do _something._ With Ron, he can sit and think, and stew in his own confused thoughts. There’s some growing panic working it’s way up his throat, and he has to– he can’t just–

“Don’t you think it’s fucking _weird,”_ he bursts out. Ron looks around, startled.

“What?”

_“This!_ This whole thing!”

“Weird.” Ron nods. “Yeah. I’d call it pretty fucking weird, mate.”

“No, I–” Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean just in general. I mean, all these things that keep happening. We don’t remember the crash. None of us remember it happening, even though we _must_ have been awake until we hit the water. And those glass bottles– how the _fuck_ did they survive a _fucking plane crash?_ They should have been smashed.”

“Okay,” Ron says slowly. He looks seconds away from scrambling to his feet and legging it. “Harry…”

“No. _No!_ I’m not fucking crazy here, okay? And what the fuck was up with that bag? Who the fuck brings _water purification_ tablets to a wellness retreat? Nobody brings a lighter or bandages or fucking rubbing alcohol to a luxury holiday!”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Harry,” Ron says. “Okay, yeah. It’s weird. But– what? You think Cedric deliberately killed himself? You think he’s some kind of evil mastermind?”

Harry lurches to his feet. “Jesus. I wouldn’t have told you if I knew you’d fucking make fun of me.”

Ron follows him up. He looks suitably apologetic, at least. “I’m sorry. Harry, I’m sorry, okay? You’re right. I’m not making fun of you. I agree that it’s weird. I just… I don’t know what you’re suggesting. If this isn’t all just a strange, fucked up coincidence then what is it?”

Harry deflates. All the energy and the adrenaline from before leaves him in one whooshing sigh. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t even know. You’re right. I mean it’s a stupid theory. Maybe I’m going crazy.”

Ron nudges their shoulders together. “I think we’re all going a little crazy. Even Tom. He looked pretty messed up today.”

Harry’s heart sinks again. “He did. I hope he’s okay.”

“If he isn’t, you’ll be the first one he tells.”

Unexpectedly, Harry’s cheeks flame. He’d have thought being thrust into this life threatening situation would have ruined his ability to get flustered like this, but apparently not. He rubs the back of his neck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron’s mouth quirks. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time together.”

Harry scowls. “Shut up, oh my god. You’ve been spending a bunch of time with Hermione, haven’t you?”

Ron’s nose screws up, but Harry doesn’t miss the flush that colours the tips of his ears. “Not to be dramatic or anything,” he says. “But if we were the only two people stranded on a desert island together, I’d still never get with her.”

That startles a laugh out of Harry at least. “Good to know your sense of humour will last longer than your sanity.”

Ron grins, and then jerks his head. “Come on,” he says. “We should get back.”

Harry bites his lip. “Ron,” he says, and then pauses, because he doesn’t know how to say this without sounding ungrateful, or crazy. At least, crazier than Ron already thinks he is. 

“Hmm?”

“We should be dead.”

Ron stops. He half turns, and the look on his face is so intense that it startles the breath from Harry’s lungs.

“Maybe,” he says. “But we’re not.”

*

Tom is already there when Harry and Ron get back. He twists his head round to watch them as they get nearer.

“There you are,” he says, standing up. “Where were you?”

Harry ignores the question. He has more important things to talk to Tom about, and he can’t put them off any longer.

“I want to check out the island,” he says, and holds his hand up to silence Tom before he can jump in. “Myself, this time. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”

“What’s the point, Harry? If we take more people, we’re only putting them in danger.”

“So don’t.” Harry shrugs. “It can just be us. You and I can go alone.”

“Harry…”

Harry squares his shoulders and fixes his eyes on a random spot over Tom’s shoulder. “Or I can just go on my own, if you don’t want to come.”

Tom grits his teeth. “After everything that’s happened, you still want to risk your life out there?”

“We need water, Tom. We all know it. We can survive for maybe another two days with what we’ve got, but when those supplies run out, we’ll die.”

“So we go in two days,” Tom says.

“Why wait?”

“At least wait until tomorrow morning. If we leave now, it could get dark soon.”

_“Tom.”_ Harry throws his arms up in despair. He doesn’t understand why Tom is so paranoid about this. “I’m going, okay? I don’t need your permission, but I’d _like_ your support. So you can– you can either come with me, or back off.”

Tom’s face goes tight and cold. His eyes shutter, and Harry has no idea what he’s thinking.

Finally, just when Harry is beginning to think Tom is going to turn his back on him, he says, “Fine. Let’s get going.”

Harry lets Tom take the lead. He isn’t sure that he should at first - it doesn’t really convey the message that Harry is in charge this time - but Tom has done this before, and Harry has barely left the beach. He is at least rational enough to know that pride is not worth dying for.

It’s hot today. The weather flip flops between warm and cold like it just can’t make up its mind, so it’s been impossible to even guess where they might be. Harry has no idea. He doesn’t remember how long they’d been on the plane before it nosedived, and he doesn’t understand why there is no land as far as anyone can see. 

They push through a thick tangle bracken and thistles and when they come out the other side, Harry realises the incline they’ve been working on for the past twenty minutes or so is evening out. They mostly walk in silence. Harry doesn’t want to waste his breath on pointless conversation and he gets the feeling Tom is still pissed at him.

It’s a relief when they finally get to the top. Harry sits down heavily and ducks in lungfuls of air, but it’s hot and humid and it doesn’t make him feel any better. It feels like the world has been thrust into a slow cooker and they’re all just waiting around to be burned alive. 

Tom eyes him warily. “Need a break?” He asks.

Harry scowls. He isn’t going to give Tom any grounds for an ‘I-told-you-so’. 

“No,” he snaps, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

“Harry, if you’re–”

“I said I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

So they go. At some point they must deviate from the path Tom took before, because he stops leading so much as just walking. He falls into step beside Harry and they press on together, shoulders brushing every so often. 

The heat is already stifling enough, and when the silence becomes too much for Harry to bear, he says, “Do you think we’ll actually find any?”

Tom doesn’t look over. He is instead concentrating on picking his way through a particularly overgrown patch of land. “Find what?”

“Water. I mean, you’re the expert. Is there usually drinkable water on islands like these?”

Tom sighs. “Harry,” he says. “I’ve never been on an island like this before. I don’t even know what kind of island an ‘island like this’ is.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Tom is being deliberately obtuse just to fuck with him, he’s sure. “You know what I mean.”

“Any water but salt water is drinkable, now. With the water purification tablets.”

Harry goes quiet. His skin is flushed and sweaty, but he still feels a chill crawl over his skin at the memory. “You saw the bag, then?”

“Yes,” Tom says slowly, not looking over. “Very useful.”

Harry can’t quite pinpoint the emotion with which Tom says it. It surfaces in him again: that desperate, needling urge to be heard, understood, believed. But he doesn’t know how that would work, when he doesn’t even understand himself. Besides, Tom likely doesn’t want to hear Harry’s crazy theories right now. 

They are making for maybe another twenty minutes in silence before they come to a fork in the path. Two routes run adjacent to one another, with a triangle of grassy land in between. Harry steels himself for a dramatic reaction.

“We should split up,” he says.

Tom whirls on him, already shaking his head. “You’re joking,” he says. “Absolutely not.”

“We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Harry. _No.”_

“There’s barely any space between the paths anyway!” Harry exclaims. “If something happens, we can just shout and the other can cut across the middle. It’ll be fine.”

Tom still looks reluctant - and angry, Harry notices, eyes blazing with barely restrained feeling - but Harry’s words are beginning to take effect. His shoulders sag.

“I don’t like this,” he says, which Harry knows has always been code for _yes._

Harry covers the distance between them and, in an attempt to reassure Tom, places one hand on his chest. Only, once it’s there, he realises he doesn’t actually want to move it. 

“Tom,” he murmurs, craning his neck to look up at him. “I’ll be fine.”

Tom’s pupils are blown wide. His eyes are so dark they almost appear black, and his lips are ever so slightly parted. “Promise me you’ll yell if something happens,” he says in a low voice. “As loud as you can.”

“I promise.” They’re so close, Harry can feel Tom’s heat. It’s unbearable, and he shivers.

“Okay.” Tom nods, resolute, with all the enthusiasm of a soldier being sent off to war. “I’ll take this one. You take the other. We meet back here in fifteen minutes. Understood?”

“We have no way of telling the time,” Harry points out, arbitrarily.

“Well, I hope you can count past a hundred.” Tom pats Harry’s back on his way past - his lower back, and as he does it his pinky finger brushes the swell of Harry’s ass and after that his brain just sort of whites out. He comes back to himself to see Tom already making his way down one of the two routes.

In his head, he thinks, _one, two, three…_

But there’s nothing down his path; only fallen branches twisted into the mud and bushes that seem to sprout up out of nowhere. Harry loses count somewhere around minute six, but honestly he’s losing enthusiasm for his own expedition. Maybe Tom was right. Maybe he should have let the others do this instead, because clearly he’s not cut out for hikes through the woods in roasting hot weather, and he’s just exhausting Tom even more so he won’t be able to do this again tomorrow, and should apologise to Tom because he was kind of an ass earlier–

He stills, one foot in front of the other. The woods are silent. He can’t even hear Tom’s thunderous footsteps anymore. His own breathing is too harsh in his ears.

Then he hears it again. A rustle, quick and sharp and coming from the bush closest to him, like something - or someone, a smal, traitorous part of his brain supplies - moving around in there. His heart jumps, and his hands curl into fists. He’s tired, dehydrated and to be honest, he was never very strong anyway. There’s no way he can fight off an attacker if one jumps out at him.

He considers calling Tom. His name is on the tip of Harry’s tongue, when suddenly there is another, fiercer movement and the whole bush _shakes._ Harry shrieks, tastes blood in the back of his mouth, and runs as fast as he can away from whatever the fuck is back there. Branches whip against his face and leaves tangle in his hair. 

“Tom!” He yells, but doesn’t wait for a reply.

He catches his foot suddenly under against a vine and the ground comes rushing up to meet him. He throws his hands in front of his face to catch himself and winces at the impact; tiny stones and splinters embed themselves into his palms and he has no idea if Tom is even close enough to hear his strangled cry.

He picks himself up, but doesn’t have time to dust himself off. He keeps running madly, wildly, pushing his way through the undergrowth like a spooked horse. He can still put weight on his ankle so it probably isn’t sprained. He doesn’t need to waste time checking it, and he doesn’t want to stop running in case–

Well. In case something is actually after him.

He casts a glance over his shoulder. He means to have a look and see if he’s actually being pursued - and he does, he looks, he can’t see anything - but while he isn’t paying attention the ground beneath him drops about two feet and he’s falling again only this time the impact will break his wrist if he tries to catch himself–

He doesn’t have time to worry about it. Harry falls face first into the tiniest lake he’s ever seen.

The impact is the worst bit. It reminds him of bellyflopping into the swimming pool as a kid, and the sting that would spread across his skin. It’s cold as well, but that’s almost kind in comparison, thanks to the ungodly heat. Harry gasps on instinct and ends up inhaling a mouthful of water. He kicks his legs frantically and hacks up a lung trying to get it all out. 

“Harry!” He hears the voice distantly, as though it’s been put through a sound modulator. There must be water in his ears. The shout comes again, and it’s undeniably Tom.

“Over here!” He cries, throat burning. “Look down. Be careful!”

Tom appears suddenly, popping his head over the edge. His eyes are wide and despite the heat, his face has gone very pale. He takes one look at Harry and figures out what happened.

“Jesus,” he calls down. “Harry, are you alright? Are you hurt? Watch out– I’m coming down.”

He doesn’t give Harry a chance to reply before he’s gripping the edge of the ledge and easing himself down, feet first into the water. He bobs under only once, and when he re-emerges, blinking furiously with his hair stuck to his face, he swims over to Harry.

“Are you hurt?” He asks again. “Did you fall?” His hands probe gently at Harry’s face like he did the first time they ever met. Harry gets the feeling he’d do the same thing for every single body part if he thought Harry was hiding some injury, and he’s half tempted to let him.

“I’m fine,” he says, sheepish now that Tom is here to see him screw up. It’s ridiculous, thinking that something was chasing him, that somebody wanted to hurt him. If there was something in that bush, it was probably a squirrel. “I’m fine, see? I just– I thought I heard something. I was running and I wasn’t looking where I was going. But I’m okay. Promise.”

Tom sighs, long and drawn out and full of relief. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s face; he still has his forefinger and thumb tilting Harry’s chin up.

“I was worried,” he says, and his breath ghosts over Harry’s lips. “I heard you scream.”

Just like before when he was convincing Tom to split up, Harry moves closer. He slips one leg in between Tom’s where they are both treading water and drapes his arms over his shoulders. It would look to any outsider as though they were in the middle of a slow dance, and the thought has Harry swallowing, mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m right here,” Harry breathes.

He is expecting it, when Tom’s lips brush his own. His eyes slip shut and he opens his mouth out of shock more than anything else. Tom groans softly, jarring in the silence, and curls one hand possessively around the nape of Harry’s neck to tug him closer, kiss him deeper and more insistent. He kisses like he does everything else, Harry thinks absently: passionate, demanding, so very in control.

They tilt suddenly when Harry forgets to kick his legs and they break apart, panting. Perhaps Tom means to say something, because he’s watching Harry closely enough, like he has a thousand things on his mind all at once. But he never gets the chance, because Harry is struck with a wonderful realisation.

“Oh my god,” he says, clinging to Tom still. “Water. Tom. _Water.”_

Tom blinks. It’s almost certainly not the direction he thought the conversation would take, but he looks around them and his face splits with a smile.

“Oh,” he says. “Water.”

“We can drink this, right? It’s safe?” Harry already knows the answer, but he wants to hear Tom say it. He wants to hear the proof of his own accidental achievement, this thing that he found that will save their lives.

“It’s safe.”

Tom tugs Harry towards the water’s edge with a hand firmly wrapped around his wrist, and only when they’re both lying flat on their backs against the sun-warmed rock does Harry allow himself to laugh.

“Holy shit,” he says, giggling breathlessly. “Holy _shit._ This is a fucking _miracle.”_

Tom props himself up on his elbow and rests his head in his hand. “You’re _unbelievable,”_ he says, but he’s grinning, so it must be a good thing. “I don’t know how you were ever allowed out in the real world. One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“You mean you aren’t always going to be around to save me?” Harry teases.

Tom’s smile turns sweeter, softer at the edges, and Harry is compelled to cup Tom’s cheek in his palm. Tom’s skin is warm under his hand and mostly smooth. There is only the lightest graze of stubble growing in, and Harry brushes his thumb back and forth against it.

Tom covers Harry’s hand with his own and slowly brings it to his mouth, kissing Harry’s palm. “I’ll always save you,” he says, quiet and sincere. “I always have. Ever since I first saw you.”

There is something in the way he says it that gives Harry pause. Something in his eyes, maybe, that suggests it means more to Tom than Harry could possibly know. He should question it. He should push the issue further. But it’s so warm and he’s so tired, and so happy that he’s actually done something productive for the group for once, that he doesn’t have it in him to start an interrogation. He flops onto his back again and blinks up at the cloudless sky.

“Tell me about you,” he says instead.

“What do you mean?”

“Before you were here. Tell me about you. What were you like? Where did you live? Why were you on that plane in the first place?” Next to him, Tom stiffens. His muscles jump and his hand, still clasped around Harry’s, flexes suddenly. Harry frowns. “I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I just… want to know you. Everything about you.”

This calms Tom. Harry feels it happen, feels the tension drain out of him, replaced with something light and buoyant. He springs up suddenly and rolls on top of Harry, so that his forearms are braced against the ground on either side of Harry’s head and their hips are tilted together. Harry’s breath hitches.

“I want to know you too,” he says, breathing heavily. “All of you. I want– _everything.”_

“So tell me,” Harry says, blinking up at him. He kisses Tom hard on the mouth. “Tell me, and I’ll tell you.”

Tom’s head drops to Harry’s shoulder. His lips mouth against the bare skin there, but the intimacy is more comforting than sexual. Harry winds his fingers through Tom’s wet hair and scratches his scalp lazily.

“There’s not much to tell,” Tom murmurs, words muffled against Harry’s skin. “I was a sad kid. And then I was a sad teenager. And then I got sent here.”

“You’ve got such a way with words.”

Tom’s laugh rumbles through both his chest and Harry’s. Warmth pools in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

“I grew up with some– bad people. I didn’t like them. And then I went to boarding school, so I didn’t have to see them very often and that was fine with me.”

“Did you enjoy school?”

“I did, actually. Not just because it was the only place I could get away from them, but because I very much enjoyed learning. I still do.”

“You’re still in school?”

“No,” Tom says. “I left last year. But you don’t stop learning when you leave school. Your whole life is an opportunity to learn. And there is always more to discover.”

It surprises Harry, that someone his own age can have so much fervour for education. Sure, Harry didn’t mind school. He didn’t hate it. But he didn’t _love_ it. It was just a stepping stone to his next stage of life, and as much as Sirius hated it, he had no plans to go to university. Some people flourish in an academic setting, but Harry is most certainly not one of them, and he has no other discernible skills or talents. That is half of his problem. The only thing he’s good at is getting angry and breaking things. 

“So what did you do at school, then? What was so good about it?”

Silence stretches out a beat too long. Harry is wondering if he has said something terribly wrong by the time Tom finally speaks.

“It was… beautiful. It was a prestigious school, and an expensive one, but the headmaster knew me personally. I got in on a scholarship.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Harry says, drawing shapes idly on Tom’s back with his finger. 

“He didn’t like me much. The headmaster, I mean. I didn’t like him much either, but it was fine. We managed it. Until–”

Harry waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Too curious for his own good, Harry says, “Until?”

Tom lifts his head suddenly and stares at Harry with such intensity that a flush crawls up his neck.

“Until I was expelled.”

Harry goes still. “Why?”

But Tom has already rolled away and now stares up at the sky with a carefully distant expression. “I think that’s enough story time for one day,” he says. “It’s your turn now. I want to know about you.”

Harry should probably press this issue too. There is so much Harry should probably do. 

“It’s kind of a sad story,” he says, shrugging loosely. “And so far there hasn’t been a happy ending.”

Tom thumbs his bottom lip. “There’s still time.”

Harry gives another halfhearted shrug. “My parents died.” 

Three simple words. That’s all it is, and yet somehow, over the past ten years of his life they became the hardest words to say. He pushed the memories away - the grinding, squealing metal, the fire, the screaming - and tried as best he could to forget it ever happened. But when you go through something horrible like that, you can’t ever forget it. You can only ignore it, and every day it digs its claws a little further under your skin.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says quietly, but Harry shakes his head. He isn’t done yet. Now that he’s started talking, he’s not ready to stop.

“It was a car crash. They died, like, straight away. So, yeah. They didn’t suffer or anything. That’s something.” Tom says nothing, but he nods sympathetically and Harry continues. “I lived with my godfather after that. I mean, not at first. He was driving the car, and I guess he has a history of, like, alcoholism. So they just assumed it was his fault. He had to go to court and while all of that was going on he couldn’t adopt me. I went to live with my aunt and her family. They were pretty terrible too.”

Tom takes Harry’s hand and lays it over his chest, so that Harry can feel the steady, rhythmic thump of Tom’s heart. “You were there, weren’t you?” He says, and it isn’t really a question. “In the car.”

Something sharp and heavy lodges itself in Harry’s throat. His eyes sting. “Yeah. I still have nightmares about it.”

He has never told this story before, but he has grown up around people who already know it. His teachers and the other kids at school, Sirius and Remus, his social workers. They all have a carefully trained response to tragedy, with varying degrees of truth to it. Harry wonders what Tom will say.

But he stays quiet. He doesn’t since or hum with faux understanding. He just keeps holding Harry’s hand, stroking it with his thumb. It’s so warm and Harry is exhausted in so many ways, and he’s comfortable here. For the first time since they landed on this island - perhaps even a lot longer than that - Harry feels safe, with Tom.

He lets his eyes slip shut. They will have to go back soon, to tell the others what they found, but right now Harry doesn’t want to be anywhere else.


	4. Day Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait on this one! For some reason it was so hard to finish even though it’s like ninety percent dialogue lol
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

When Hermione’s ankle finally gets better, she makes sure they all know about it. She jumps up and down in front of Tom like she’s trying to prove her physical fitness, she does yoga with Luna and a reluctant Draco, and she doesn’t stop following Harry around until he agrees to play noughts and crosses with her in the sand. Then, she sits cross legged on the ground and doesn’t mention her ankle at all.

“So,” Hermoine says, drawing a grid in the sand with her finger. “What’s it like? The island, I mean.”

Harry sighs. He and Tom told everyone the story of their expedition when they returned - minus a few irrelevant details, of course - and he knows Ginny and Ron told stories about their trip when they first made it. He’s pretty sure Hermione is just bored rather than actually interested. If living vicariously through others is what’s going to keep her spirits up, Harry can give her this one.

“It was… weird. Half of it was like a beach and the other half was like a jungle. It’s hard to tell if we’re actually alone here or not.”

She looks up sharply, eyes narrowed when she says, “What does that mean?”

Harry frowns and draws an ‘X’ in the middle box. “Animals, you know? Predators. Or even just smaller animals that we could eat. Goats, pigs, whatever.”

“I’m a vegetarian.” Hermione’s nose wrinkles and she puts an ‘O’ in the top left corner.

Harry shrugs. “Not anymore.”

“It’s good you found the water, though. We wouldn’t have made it to Tuesday without it.”

This time it’s Harry’s turn to look at her strangely. She blinks and her cheeks flush at the close attention. 

“What?”

“You’ve been keeping track of the days?”

The corner of her mouth ticks up into a smile. “Of course. We were flying out on a Sunday and it’s been seven days. So we could have lasted tomorrow, but we’d probably have started dying on Tuesday. So, yeah. Water, great.”

“Great,” Harry echoes. “Thanks. That’s… good to know.”

Seven days. They’ve been here a week and nobody has come for them. The thought has been festering at the back of his mind for days now, stinging like an open wound whenever he brushes against it, but until now he hadn’t let himself truly consider it.

No one is coming for them. They’re never getting off this island.

He feels like someone has just scooped his stomach out and left him hollow and rotting inside. A tight coil of panic grips his heart and he lurches to his feet, bile riding steadily in his throat too quickly for him to swallow back. His foot twists in the sand and he wipes out the proof of their game completely by accident, but he can’t spare time worrying about that because he only just reaches the sea in time to throw up. He ignores Hermione worriedly calling his name behind him, just focuses on the pounding in his head and the way his body seems to be twisting itself up inside.

Then there are arms around him, hands brushing his hair back and holding him steady at the nape of his neck. Tom helps him to his feet and it takes a moment for Harry to tune in to the soothing sounds he’s making.

“It’s okay,” he coos, wiping Harry’s mouth with his sleeve. “You’re okay. You’re alright, I’ve got you.” He turns to Hermione and his whole posture changes. “What happened?” He snaps, so harshly that Harry flinches. Tom goes back to running his hands up and down Harry’s arms.

“I don’t know!” Hermione is pacing, but he gets the feeling she’s just trying to show Tom her ankle is better. It’s a useless effort. Harry doubts Tom will sanction any more trips around the island for a while. “We were just talking and then he kind of freaked out.”

“M’fine,” Harry mutters. Tom looks unconvinced. “Really. Those berries are just gross.”

Hermione titters nervously but Tom is still as stony faced as ever. He presses the back of his hand against Harry’s forehead and frowns.

“Maybe you should lie down. When’s the last time you had a drink?”

Harry is about to reply - to object, he corrects himself, because Tom’s concern is sweet but he doesn’t need to _lie down_ \- when thundering footsteps against the sand distract him. He looks up in time for Ginny to come to a stop and fold her arms.

“You’re not getting away from the conversation that easily,” she says, sparing Harry a mildly worried look before turning back to Tom. Harry can’t blame her. In this place where time is all they have, worrying about someone is a vortex that pulls you in and never lets you go. 

“Can we not do this right now?” Tom snaps, barely looking at her over his shoulder. His attention is solely focused on Harry, and while usually that would be intoxicating, now it just frustrates him.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“Nothing,” Tom says, at the same time that Ginny says, “Tom doesn’t think it’s a good idea to swim out to the wreck.”

Harry’s gaze snaps back to Tom, who sighs deeply. “I just think it’s a risk that we don’t have to take at this stage.”

“It’s a great idea,” Harry tells him, and then looks to Ginny. “It’s a great idea. There could be all sorts of things on there. We could find another suitcase.”

“Exactly. _Thank_ you..” Ginny snaps her fingers and glares at Tom. “It’s good to know _someone_ has a brain around here, other than me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry notices Hermione turning a mottled shade of red and he has to stifle a laugh. Now is not the time.

Tom still hasn’t spoken, but a muscle in his jaw is ticking and he’s grinding his teeth so hard Harry can practically hear it. He wants to reach out and touch him, knows he can’t, not with Ginny here, not without making it obvious that something is going on with them, but he also wants to stand his ground and talk about this for real, without Tom smooth talking his way out of an argument. Tom has an uncanny way of twisting words and truths to suit his interests. Out in the real world, it would seem to Harry like a big red flag, but things work differently here. He has no idea what Tom is like normally. Harry knows he’s probably not the same as he was back at home.

It would be so easy though, to reach out and brush his fingers down Tom’s cheek, to take his hand. To drain the tension out of him with one simple touch.

“Why don’t you want to? It’s no more risky than anything else we’ve done so far,” Harry says.

Tom is quiet but firm when he says, “We already know how dangerous the water can be.”

Harry shudders at the memory. “You don’t have to go,” Harry says quietly, petulantly, even though he knows that’s not the problem. “Ginny and I can go.”

“Absolutely not.”

Harry saw that coming a mile away. Surprisingly, he finds that his answer comes easier than he expected.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry but I wasn’t asking your permission.”

Tom reels back as though he’s been slapped, and Harry’s skin flushes hot, guilt sitting heavy on his shoulders for a moment before he remembers that he shouldn’t _need_ Tom’s permission. He’s not going to hold himself back or make himself into whatever pliant partner Tom wants him to be.

Ginny looks between them with a furrow between her eyebrows and, for the first time, looks like she has absolutely no idea what to say. She exchanges a quick glance with Hermione and then both at once start to back away.

“I’m gonna talk to the others,” she says slowly. “You two talk it out. I’ll be… somewhere.” 

And then they’re on their own again, and usually Harry would treat these stolen moments of privacy as sacred, but now it just makes it harder for him to say what he has to say. Tom is still watching him with hurt etched so clearly into his features that Harry wants nothing more than to lean in and kiss it away. But he can’t, because then Tom will win, and Tom _shouldn’t_ win.

“Why are you doing this, Harry?” He asks quietly. If this wasn’t Tom, if Harry didn’t know him, his voice right now might have sounded dangerous. But it’s a ridiculous thought and Harry dismisses it at once. They’re having this argument because Tom wants to keep him safe - it’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

“Because I want to,” Harry says. “Because someone needs to, and it can be me. Because I– I shouldn’t have to obey all your demands, alright?”

“What’s this really about?”

Tears of frustration well up behind Harry’s eyes and he turns his head so that Tom doesn’t see them. It’s like talking to a brick wall, but with feelings and an iron will. Harry just doesn’t know how Tom doesn’t _get_ it.

“I just _told_ you what it’s really about!” Harry cries. “This isn’t some secret code, okay? I’m not trying to send a weird message here. This is about me making my own decisions.”

“I don’t _believe_ you,” Tom spits. He jumps to his feet and, so that they aren’t on uneven ground anymore than they usually are, Harry does the same. “I wish you’d stop trying to be some sort of hero just to spite me.”

“This isn’t about you!” They’re yelling now, properly yelling, the kind of arguments Harry never remembers his parents having. He knows that everyone on the other end of the beach will be listening in but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Tom is being so obtuse. “I’m not doing anything to spite you! And if I was, which I’m _not,_ it doesn’t fucking matter anyway. I should be _allowed_ to. I don’t need your permission. It’s not about me being a hero, it’s about you trying to make me a coward.”

“I’m not trying to make you a coward. Jesus, Harry, I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“Well, I never asked you to.”

It’s like a switch has been flipped. His face settles into a carefully expressionless stare, the kind he has seen Tom wear so often before. He wonders if it comes easy to Tom, because Harry is doing everything he can fight back the emotion that threatens to surface. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you can’t stop me.”

Then he brushes past Tom and forces himself to keep his eyes forward as he walks. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Tom is following him.

“Ginny,” he calls out when he’s close enough. “Are we going or what?”

He hates the way she looks to Tom before she replies, but it only strengthens his resolve. That look, that hesitance from other people after he has made a decision for himself, is exactly why he needs to go through with this.

Then she shrugs her jacket off and ties her hair in a knot. “We sure are,” she says, already heading towards the water. “We should get a third, though. Just in case. Anyone want to volunteer?”

Ron’s hand slowly appears towards the back of the group, but he promptly snatches it back when Tom pops up at Harry’s side again.

“I’m going,” he announces. And then, into Harry’s ear, he says, “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry mutters back. “You’re welcome to stay on the beach.”

But they both know he won’t. When they dive into the sea, Ginny overtakes both of them and Tom lags behind, matching Harry’s pace even though he could go twice that speed if he wanted. For a moment Harry is consumed by guilt and worry; he’s a liability, he’s a burden, he should have stayed on the beach like Tom asked. Then he remembers Ginny’s hesitance, Ron’s teasing smile, Tom’s mouth moving against his own, and he kicks his legs harder and pushes forward. If people think he’s a liability, he just has to prove them wrong.

Ginny gets there first, and treads water until Harry and Tom appear a few moments later. They know this must be the spot because debris still bobs around in clusters of twisted metal. Ginny ducks under the water quickly and then resurfaces, wiping the sting from her eyes and jerking her head to the side.

“This way,” she says. “You’re gonna need to hold your breath.”

Tom grumbles something under his breath and if they were on dry land, Harry would step on his toes. As it is, he barely has the energy to elbow his ribs. They count down from three, and then they go under.

Harry has always hated opening his eyes underwater. He doesn’t understand how other people can do it without becoming uncomfortable. It doesn’t hurt exactly, not at first, but it’s just a blurry sense of wrongness that has him breathing out in a whoosh that bubbles out of him. He kicks to the surface again.

“Sorry,” he says, spluttering. “Sorry. I just– wasn’t ready. Let’s go again.”

“If you need to go back–”

“No.” Harry cuts Tom off before he can even finish that thought. “I’m fine. Again.”

They go again. And again. And on the fourth time, they make it.

The wreck is even scarier underwater. Harry states at the jagged shards of metal and torn leather seats still rooted to the floor with a horrified fascination. A little voice that he has tried his best to banish these past few days tells him again that _they should be dead. There’s no way they could have survived this._

Ginny points towards a blurry shape lodged under one of the remaining seats and Tom glides smoothly through the water, as though he belongs here. Harry turns on the spot. He doesn’t have much time left - his chest is beginning to burn and ache and his lungs are screaming - but he forces himself to stay calm. Tries to, anyway. He’s not going to be any help if he's panicking. 

Out of the corner of his eye, something catches his attention. It’s bright orange and, ironically, very familiar. He cuts through the water towards it, reaches out to grab it, and comes up short. His fingers brush the lifejacket, neatly folded and still in pristine condition, and it snags against a spike of steel. Harry should try again, should keep trying until he’s got it because this would be useful and he wants to be _useful–_

But he can’t. He can’t. It’s too much and he can’t–

He pushes away from the plane and kicks desperately towards the surface. His legs are leaden and the pinprick of the sun that pierces the ocean’s surface is getting smaller and smaller. He’s not sure he can make it after all. He’s going to run out of air and just sink down and down, and he’ll lie on the floor of the sea amongst the wreckage of the plane forever.

He doesn’t even notice when a hand closes around his wrist and drags him upwards. The world only comes back into focus for him when Tom slaps him on the back, hard, and he coughs up a lungful of seawater.

“Jesus,” Tom says, voice tight and panicked. It makes something small and tender throb in Harry’s chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” Harry says, in between gasps for air. “Sorry. I’m fine. Let’s–”

“No.” Tom is still gripping his wrist, but now he holds the other one as well and doesn’t let him move. “We’re going back. I knew this was a bad idea.”

Ginny’s head bobs above the surface, strings of hair stuck to her face, eyes screwed up angrily. She’s clutching the newly found suitcase to her chest, struggling to hold it and stay afloat at the same time.

“What the fuck, Tom?” She says. “You wanna help me out with this?”

Tom doesn’t let go of Harry’s wrists.

“I’m fine.” Harry insists. “Let me go back. I saw something.”

“We’re going back to the island. I should never have let you come.”

Ginny laughs, shrill with disbelief. “Are you seriously doing this now? Can you wait until we’re _not_ about to drown to have this domestic, _please?”_

If Harry hadn’t just escaped death a second - third - time, he might blush at that. Instead, he tries pulling his arms out of Tom’s grasp. He doesn’t have much success. 

Tom leans down to hiss at Harry’s face, “You almost _died.”_

“But I didn’t.” Harry’s heart is thumping erratically in his chest and he focuses on that sound, that feeling, reassures himself with the knowledge that it’s still there and working. 

“But you could.” Tom cups his face and furrows his eyebrows just a little, pleading, and Harry’s shoulders loosen. “Please. Just come back to the island?”

Harry breathes deeply, and exhales, and doesn’t look Tom in the eye when he nods. “Alright,” he says. “Okay. You’re right.”

Tom visibly relaxes. His chest deflates. His hands loosen around Harry’s wrists and then fall away. His face goes momentarily slack. He looks so sincerely relieved that Harry is pierced by a sudden stab of guilt.

As Tom turns away to help Ginny with the suitcase, Harry takes a breath so deep his lungs burn and ducks under the water. Instantly, everything is quiet again, calm. He knows Tom will follow him down here and he’ll undoubtedly be faster, stronger. He doesn’t have much time, but he has a few seconds advantage, and apparently that is enough to make it back to the wreck unhindered.

The lifejacket is a beacon in the dark water, floating on the spot now that Harry has pulled it loose. The string is caught on a splinter of metal where the plane tore open and it's easy to pull it free. Elation surges through his whole body like electricity. He actually _did_ something.

He turns to leave - he doesn’t have much choice when Tom grabs him around the waist and pulls - but before he does, he notices something else. At first, confusion clouds his mind. It’s such a small thing that he barely even recognises why it’s weird, why his brain has singled it out as something to focus on.

The windows weren’t broken. Harry had seen that when he was diving towards the wreck. It’s not surprising in itself - he’s heard they’re bulletproof. But now, half inside and half out, Harry realises that the cockpit door is still firmly shut as well. 

There isn’t much time to contemplate it. Tom has him above the surface in seconds, and Harry doesn’t try speaking to him. He gets the feeling Tom doesn’t want to hear anything he has to say. Instead, he grabs both of Harry’s hands in a crushing grip and guides one to wrap around the handle of the suitcase so that Ginny doesn’t have to carry all of the weight. The other he holds tight, dragging them both towards shore.

Harry can’t stop thinking about it. It could be nothing. It probably is. But it sticks in his mind nonetheless, the way everything about this island does. When you’re already suspicious, every little thing becomes a mystery to uncover.

But when he gets back to the shore, other matters push themselves to the surface. The conspiracy theories can wait while they take a look inside the suitcase.

Ron is waiting in the shallows to help them in. When he sees Ginny’s head bobbing above the gentle waves his eyes close briefly and his lips move in what Harry can only assume is a silent ‘thank you’. They crawl onto land, all three of them exhausted, and collapse on their backs. The lifejacket tumbles to the floor and Tom’s head lolls to the side to look at it.

“That?” He says incredulously. “That’s what you risked your life for? Are you fucking serious?”

“Can you not do this right now?” Harry is too tired to argue. “Please.”

Tom sits up and grabs Harry’s face in his hand. It’s so unexpected that Harry flinches. Tom’s forefinger and thumb dig into his cheeks. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says. “And you lied to me.”

Anger gives Harry another kick of energy. He slaps Tom’s hand away and says, “I wouldn’t have had to if you’d just be _normal_ for once. What makes you think you can make my decisions for me?”

Ron looks between them all, raises an eyebrow at Ginny and, after she shakes her head subtly, backs away.

“Clearly you can’t keep yourself safe, so I’m going to have to do it instead. You can make your own decisions when you’re making _good_ ones.”

Harry is so gobsmacked that, for a moment, he can only open and close his mouth without a single word escaping. He’d known, he’d _known,_ he hadn’t really needed proof at all, but to hear Tom say so casually that he’s planning on controlling all of Harry’s decisions from now on is infuriating. Fury is an old friend come to sit on his shoulder. It chases the chill from his bones and replaces it with a flush that covers him from head to toe in seconds.

“You’re such an asshole, oh my god,” he says, shaking his head incredulously. “You’re fucking _crazy.”_

“I’m crazy?” Tom scoffs. “I’m not the one that almost drowned myself to prove a point. You’re acting like a child.”

“And you’re acting like a bitch.”

He doesn’t know where he’s going when he turns and leaves. Probably nowhere. There aren’t many places he can run away to, here. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’ll mean he’s forced to face his demons head on this time around. Right now, it just means that he can’t be on his own unless he stomps across the sand like a child throwing a tantrum, just like Tom said.

Fuck Tom. _Fuck Tom._ The need to punch something takes him by surprise. He hasn’t felt it in a while. Probably not since the day he provoked Draco. It’s all encompassing and even more powerful for having been ignored all this time. He curls his hands in and out of fists over and over to quell the urge.

He has no idea how long he’s out there. In the end he finds the clearing he and Ron sat in before and he lies flat, looking up at the sun as it filters through the trees. He’s drifting off. Emotionally drained and helplessly lonely without Tom’s support around his shoulders, Harry wants to curl up and lose himself for a while. Maybe he does. Maybe he falls asleep. He can’t be sure. The next thing he knows is somebody shuffling towards him and scuffing dirt into his face by accident. 

“So,” Hermione says, apropos of nothing, plonking herself down next to Harry on the ground. “Intense, huh?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“Everything. You and Tom. This place. That argument. Are you alright?”

“Oh.” Harry sighs. He wants to bury his face in his hands, but if Tom looks over and sees Harry looking upset - or even remotely bothered by any of this - then Harry has lost. “Yeah. I guess so. I mean, yes. Definitely. I’m fine, thank you.”

“What Tom did was messed up.”

“Let me guess.” Harry laughs humorlessly. _“‘But he was just trying to protect me.’”_

Hermione frowns. “No,” she says vehemently. “But nothing. What he did was messed up. If he can’t see that, that’s his problem.”

“Well, not really. It’s my problem too, if he makes it my problem.” Harry’s shoulders sag and he turns to Hermione. “But thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“That’s my speciality.” She elbows him teasingly. “If you ever need backup in another screaming match, let me know. I’m usually very non confrontational, but I can punch well.”

Harry’s eyebrows lift. “You?” He grins. “Punched someone?”

She flexes her fingers as though reliving the event in question. “He totally deserved it.”

“I believe you.”

They sit in silence for a while. The sun is setting and it’s peaceful, despite everything, to watch it dip beneath the horizon. For just a moment, the sky turns pink and orange and Harry can pretend he is watching this same sunset from anywhere else in the world. 

“Hermione,” he begins, voice quiet and tentative. He’s had something on his mind for a while. “How much do you know about planes?”

She hums thoughtfully. “A little. Why?”

“Hypothetically, is it normal that the windows of a plane would survive a crash?”

Hermione tilts her head and regards him with a skeptical expression. “Are you asking me this because you saw the plane wreckage and the windows weren’t broken?”

“I said _hypothetically.”_

“Well.” She considers it for a moment. “I mean, it’s possible. They’ve gotta be strong so that people aren’t, like, sucked out of a tiny hole.”

“Okay. How about the captain’s door?”

“What?”

“The cockpit door. Would that survive a crash?”

“It depends on how bad the crash was.”

“Inconvenient how none of us actually remember any of it, isn’t it?”

“What are you getting at, Harry?” Hermione asks. She sounds exasperated, but when she turns her face to him, there is something sharp and calculated in her eyes that gives Harry pause. Something that suggests maybe, maybe, she knows what he’s getting at.

He ducks his head so that he can lower his voice and speak only to her. “When I was down there, the windows were all still in one piece and the cockpit door was intact. Like, perfectly intact. Don't you think that’s weird?”

“Not necessarily. If it survived the impact then the pressure underwater would even it out on both sides. _If_ it survived the impact, that is.”

“So the captain just… what? Never left the cockpit? Never opened the door? Just let himself starve to death in there?”

“Did you see him in there? Through the windows?”

Harry hesitates, and he knows Hermione sees it. “I don’t– I didn’t see. There wasn’t really time to look.”

He loses her. He watches it happen. “Harry, listen,” she says slowly. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, or with you and Tom, but I just want to make sure you’re staying… present.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you’re losing yourself in a bunch of crazy conspiracies then you aren’t here, staying sane, with us.”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut. She has a point - one that he doesn’t want to hear, but one that he should probably acknowledge all the same. He hasn’t really been present. It’s only when he’s with Tom, when he kissed him, when they’re side by side at night, sharing warmth, that he properly feels at ease, like it’s safe to let his mind rest. Because–

Because he knows Tom will take care of him. 

But at the same time, he saw what he saw, and he knows how he feels, and something is _not_ right here. If Hermione doesn’t believe him then he’ll just have to do a good job of convincing her he isn’t losing his mind. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah. You’re right. I guess I just freaked out when I realised we’d been here for a whole week.”

A dark look passes over her face. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

“No. It’s good that you did. It’s good that someone is keeping track of the days.”

A shadow falls over Hermione’s face before she can reply. Harry shields his eyes and squints up at Tom’s looming figure. He has his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw is set tight.

“Hermione, will you give us a moment?” He says. He’s not looking at Harry.

She looks between them with her lip between her teeth before she holds up her hands in surrender. “That’s my cue. But, Harry, remember what I said.”

She disappears, and Harry stares after her longingly. He _really_ doesn't want to be alone with Tom if they’re just going to shout at each other again, because he’s too tired to be at the top of his game and, as much as he tries to ignore it, there’s a small sliver of hurt and guilt unfurling in his stomach. He won’t say he’s sorry. Not out loud, anyway. But he’ll feel like shit all the same. 

“So,” Tom says, sitting down. “The suitcase had food in it. Just snacks. Crisps, chocolate bars, stuff like that. Most of it is stale now but it’s a good find.” 

“Cool,” Harry says. It is cool, actually, and a relief to know that they won’t starve for another few days, but he doesn’t want to give Tom any of the satisfaction of bearing good news.

Tom sighs. _“Harry._ I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you want from me.”

He says it so sincerely, so _plaintively,_ that Harry can’t ignore him anymore. He wants to be on the same side as Tom again. Things were so much easier when they were aligned.

“If you don’t understand this then I just… I don’t know how to make you see. You can’t–”

“I can’t what?”

Harry lowers his voice to a hiss. “You can’t _kiss_ me and then act like you can control me. Okay? You can’t– you’re either one or the other. Either you’re the leader or you’re, y’know. _With_ me. You don’t get to be both.”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“But that’s not your decision to make. I make my choices, okay?”

“You make _bad_ choices.”

_“_ They’re my fucking bad choices and I’ll make them if I want.”

Tom sits back and glares, but his resolve is weakening. Maybe this is the way forward with everyone: just making ultimatums until they finally pay attention.

“So I’m supposed to just sit on the sidelines and watch you make mistakes?” Tom says darkly.

Harry leans over and takes his hand. His chest feels lighter for the first time all day. “Exactly.”

Tom’s eyes slip shut and he rests his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. It’s nice, being the one he leans on rather than the other way round yet again. Harry threads his fingers through Tom’s hair and scratches lightly over his scalp.

“I can’t lose you.” Harry looks up to find Tom already watching him, eyes narrow and determined. “I won’t. You’re too–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and while Harry is burning with curiosity to hear what he would have said, he is more interested in feeling Tom’s mouth move against his again.

Tom kisses him right there in the open, and Harry doesn’t know whether this means their argument is over, or if Tom agreed to back off, or whether Harry is making a terrible mistake, but he clutches Tom’s shoulders and hauls him closer and kisses him back.

*

Harry wakes as though from a dream. He can’t pinpoint the moment he opened his eyes and he doesn’t remember falling asleep, but one second he’s surrounded by darkness and the next there are little pinprick stars above him. Something disturbed him, but he isn’t sure what.

He sits up. Tom is still curled around him, warm and heavy in his sleep, so it’s a struggle. His muscles protest. He’s tired from today, not just the exercise but the screaming match that came after it as well. Harry is used to this feeling. He used to love it, the rush that came with anger, with yelling, with chipping away at something until he got a victory. Now it just feels stale and rotting in the pit of his stomach, and he’s exhausted. 

Something rustles over by the trees and Harry startles. He’d been about to go back to sleep - he’d begun to think that there was no noise to begin with, no distraction, that his mind really was playing tricks on him - but this is a definite, _loud_ noise. He props himself up on his elbows and squints in that direction.

It could have just been an animal. It probably was. But–

But there is a flash of pale blonde hair bobbing between the trees, getting fainter and fainter as it gets further away. Harry’s breath catches. He wriggles into a sitting position and starts to get up, to follow, to find out what is going on exactly, but a sleepy hand on his wrist stops him.

“What’re you doing?” Tom mumbles, eyes slitted open. “You alright?”

He must be tired too. He never speaks so casually. He’s the only person Harry has ever met that stays so stonily invulnerable throughout the day, and it’s a relief to know the facade drops when he’s only half awake.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “I just…”

He turns back to the woods, and the person has vanished. Maybe they were never there. Harry could pick his way over the sleeping bodies around him to find out who’s here and who isn’t, but it would wake everybody up and he’s just… he’s _so tired._

There has been enough drama today. He doesn’t want to add to it.

“It’s nothing,” he tells Tom, and burrows back into his chest. “Go back to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! <3


End file.
